It Will Be All Right
by AlexandraZakaria
Summary: It's 1861, and the Civil War has just started. Will Alfred manage to pull through or will he, like his Union, dissolve into pieces?
1. Chapter 1

_Hetalia_ and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.

* * *

**Chapter One: **

_July 21, 1861_

Alfred felt the bullet rip through his chest before he heard the gunshot screaming in his ears.

One moment, he had been walking back to the house after three hours of frantic pacing in the woods that did nothing to calm his nerves—it was coming, the war was coming, the war was _here_—and the next moment, he was sprawled on the ground, facedown, his mouth filling with a bitter combination of dirt from the earth and blood from his lungs. As his mind struggled to piece together what had just happened, his fingers at the same time scrabbling to shove his body upright to face his attacker, a boot slammed into his back, driving a wedge of singular agony into his spine.

"I can' believe he's still alive," a low voice drawled, and Alfred hissed as the pressure on his back increased. "I was sure you got 'im."

"Me too," a second voice said, although this one was shades less steady, and miles less light. "But you know wha' they say. You can't kill these folks _too_ easily."

Alfred felt someone wrench his head up in a sudden blur of motion and drag him to the forest through the muck left by the recent rain. Even though he tried to will his arms, his legs—anything!—to move in place of this humiliating paralysis, nothing responded, and he gasped in wretched pain with every jerk and twist his body was subjected to as he and his two attackers headed deeper into the brambles and bush.

Settling with immobility, Alfred managed to focus for brief snatches of time on one of the men. There was nothing special about him—dressed in simple, practical clothes faded by age and work, tanned to such an extent that his skin looked like leather—he could have passed for any of the farmers in the area. Even his face was decidedly nondescript, lined by labor but definitely young, complete with a pair of blue eyes damp with the type of fear that had spread recently in the country—fear of the uncontrollable and the unknown. The only thing that set the man apart from the tens of hundreds of thousands of people that Alfred had seen in his lifetime was the gun gripped in his hand, too ornate to truly belong in his weathered and tired grasp. An aristocrat's gun…

Alfred had no doubt that the person towing him unceremoniously through the woods looked the same.

In a sudden move, Alfred was dropped at the base of a tree, and in the next moment, a face shoved itself up close to Alfred's head. Alfred fought the urge to vomit as the stink of rotten gums and the sour hint of tobacco assaulted his nostrils.

"Hey, hey! He's still breathing!" the man said after thirty seconds of too close an examination. Alfred identified him as the man who had stepped on his back, the man who seemed to be enjoying Alfred's misery to the point of grotesque levity.

"Well, don' stand there ogling him," the second man snapped, the jumpy one that Alfred had had the pleasure of looking at while he had been manhandled into the woods. "Finish 'im off already."

"Who—who _are_ you?" Alfred managed to gasp out, spitting the words in between coughs of blood. Even with the dizziness hammering his skull, Alfred knew that he had to buy time—he had to buy time so somebody could finish these two bastards off, or at least time so that his wound could heal so that he could snap their necks himself. He healed fast—he could feel his flesh knitting together, the blood flow already stopping, the muscles and skin pulling themselves taut in formation—but it would be another fifteen minutes before he could even be considered functional. Fifteen minutes…anything could happen in fifteen minutes…and he couldn't die here, not now, not with the Union in the state it was in…

"He can talk!" The first man whistled. "Well, I'll be _damned_."

"Shut your trap, Tom, and kill 'im already." The second man shook his head in disgust, although Alfred, even in his pain-wracked state, could see an edge of panic twitching in the corners of his mouth. "We don't know who saw us, and we don't want to be shot, do we?"

"There ain't nobody out there that matters but us and him. Even if he has _darkies_ up in that house, what are they to come and save their master? Why!" Tom laughed, his lips curling back to reveal frighteningly black teeth. "They'll be just as glad as if they shot 'im themselves. You know how them blacks are, Phil."

"Did you forget where we are?" Phil said. "For God's sake, we're in the _North_. Them blacks _love_ the whites up here."

"You…you didn't answer my question," Alfred said, and with what seemed like a Herculean effort, shoved himself upright.

"Oh! Now—you just stay _down_." Phil, with a swift flick of his foot, kicked Alfred in the side in a move that in any other circumstance Alfred would have been able to dodge and sent Alfred tumbling down again, wheezing, to the earth. "Don't get rowdy wi' me."

In the instant that his skin connected with the unforgiving ground, Alfred, in a sickening lurch, felt his vision of the two men tip sideways, fade, and replace itself with…

_A man, no younger than thirty shook Alfred awake. Dressed messily in the Union blue, a roll of tobacco dangling lazily at the corner of his mouth, he looked out of place compared to the other soldiers in their stiff collars and impossibly well-polished guns. They were in a forest, the shade providing wonderful, blessed relief from the scorching July heat._

_ "You can't fall asleep now," the man said. "We're about to move."_

_ "Hmm?" Alfred felt his mouth say. "Now?"_

_ "Soon," the man replied. "Say, Billy, how old are you?"_

_ "Nineteen," Alfred said, although it wasn't him talking; it was whoever he was seeing this moment from. "Why?"_

_ "Well…nothing." The man sighed and threw his tobacco on the ground. "You don't want to miss the first real battle of the Civil War by sleeping do you?"_

_ "No."_

_ "Good. Good. Come on. Pay attention." The man shook his head. "It'd be a shame if you were killed here."_

With a gasp, Alfred was back in his body again, and Tom was saying to Phil, "He ain't going to do anything. Jus' look at him all bloody." Tom kneeled down. "In answer to your question, we come from Virginia. You know where tha' is?" He chuckled. "Long ways away."

"Why?" Alfred croaked out, still shaken by what he had just experienced. It had been years since his last "pull-in," as Arthur had called it. Personifications, Arthur had said, especially in times of great stress, could lose control of their bodies for a moment or even longer and see the nation through the eyes of one of its citizens. It was easier for old personifications, such as Arthur or Francis, to remain stable, to keep a handle on their own consciousness. And, it was easy for Alfred too—or it had been until today. God, he hadn't had such a sudden pull-in since the War of 1812.

"Orders are orders," Tom said, smiling. "That's all I know."

"If you're done _socializing_, let's end this already and get out of here." Phil scowled. "I don' like this."

"All right, all right." Tom shrugged and said, with an emotion bordering almost on childish regret, "Sorry about this, but we have to do what we have to do." He raised his gun, and Alfred couldn't look away from that coldly impersonal and blank barrel, couldn't not think about what would happen after that bullet went through his head, burying itself in a gory mix of tissue and bone. Would he wake up? Or would he stay dead? Would he, the personification of America—no, the _Union_ only now—cease to exist? Would…would the South…would Johnny take over for him…?

Alfred saw the finger press down on the trigger oh-so-slowly, by aching fractions of centimeters. And, with a sudden jerk, Alfred screamed, screamed so loud that the air seemed to shoot out of his lungs with the propulsion of a cannonball, scraping the skin of his throat like blazing sandpaper.

The first man jumped backward. "What the devil?"

"It's starting…" Alfred moaned, and he was back in the mind of that boy, Billy, on the battlefield…

_The heavy pounding of artillery fire was deafening. Thumping in his ears—or was that just his heartbeat?—he ran forward, because that was what he was ordered to do, and he knew nothing else but those terse commands of the officers that he trusted with his life. The man from before—William, now that he thought about it—was running alongside him, and they were dodging the fire of shells and bullets together. Around them, he could hear screams as men were blown to pieces by wild aim, and he ducked down as the remnant of an arm flew in his direction._

_ "Don't stop!" William shouted, his voice sounding hollow and weak compared to the chaos of the battle. "Whatever you do, don't stop. Keep running until you find a spot that you can fire from safely." He waved his rifle to the mass of cannons huddled on the top of a hill. "Aim for that and—" But he was cut off as he dove to the side, an artillery shell barely missing him._

_ And Billy—Alfred—Billy kept running, but there was no cover for him to stop and rest and start shooting as he had in training. No cover… And he didn't want to die. Not yet. No…_

_ He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home to his mother and little sister. It hadn't seemed so bad when he had first enlisted—in fact, he had felt like a hero. And it hadn't even been that terrible in training—he had felt like a soldier. But now, now, he felt like a little child playing a game too out of his league to win, or for that matter, to comprehend._

_ "You damn fool! What are you doing?" William screamed, and Billy realized that he had been standing still, frozen and a prime target. "Move, damn you! Move!"_

_ And, in the span of a single second, Billy saw as William fell, a single, clean gunshot wound right in the middle of his chest._

_ A harsh shriek caused Billy to turn. A man in grey was charging at him. The man's rifle was gleaming in the bright light, and Billy felt his arms move, his fingers close around the trigger of his own rifle, and a loud shot ring through the air, and the grey man dropped to the ground, his eyes wide and very much dead._

_ Billy kept running, looking for cover when there was none. He had to. He had to, if he wanted to stay alive. And he was still running, when a cannon had whistled toward him and slammed into his stomach._

"What's starting?" Tom said, and Alfred could see him trembling. Alfred heard a thin wail in the air, screeching and cruel, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was his own voice.

"For God's sake! Shoot him! Shut him up!" Phil cried. "Do it now! What are you waiting for?" When Tom didn't move, Phil dropped his gun and fled into the forest, crashing through the brush like a frightened animal.

Tom looked at the path that Phil had cleared clumsily in his haste to run, looked at Phil's aristocratic gun on the ground and the aristocratic gun in his palm, looked at Alfred writhing and twisting on the ground in absolute agony, and with the look of a cornered rabbit, all humor dropped, he ran.

"God, stop!" Alfred gasped.

_Bull Run. Manassas. Bull Run. Manassas. Dying, dying, dead._

Alfred sobbed in broken gurgles as the wound in his chest was ripped open again with his desperate flailing.

"Make it stop!" he screamed. "Make it stop!" Because the men engaged in the fight were all his this time—not like in the War of 1812, not like in the Revolution, when the enemy were foreigners. No, all those engaged in the Civil War were _Americans_, _his_ boys, boys that were being slaughtered and carved up right this instant.

_Blue. Grey. Blue. Grey. Red. Red. RED._

"Please…please…_please_!"

Alfred saw the gun on the forest floor. And, with a savage burst of strength, he seized it and pressed it against his temple.

_Stop. Don't. Stop. What are you doing? Stop! You fool! Stop it! Don't you care about the conseque—!_

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

Author's Note:

And there it is. Chapter One of my epic (Hah! Right!) Civil War saga (is that the correct word?). It could be more polished-definitely more polished. In any case, if you would like to see more, please leave a review. They are very much appreciated. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

_December 1860_

_ "What do you mean they _seceded_?" Alfred growled, the last word spitting out between his clenched teeth. _

_ President Buchanan looked at him with the expression that Alfred hated the most—apathy. He folded his pale hands on the desk, a gesture too prim and proper for the urgency of the situation, and said, "I think you know exactly what it means."_

_ "I want you to say it." Alfred felt his hands tighten reflexively into fists, his knuckles turning white under the strain. _

_ Buchanan sighed, more in exasperation than any kind of genuine regret. "They are no longer a part of the Union." _

_ "Why—" Alfred ground out, "haven't you done anything about it?" A vein had begun to throb in his temple._

_ Buchanan shrugged his soft shoulders. "There is nothing to do."_

_ Alfred wanted to scream. On good days, he could tolerate Buchanan and his limp face, he could give a tight smile and nod a 'good morning' without grimacing. Today was not a good day. South Carolina had seceded from the Union, the event that Alfred had feared the most for the past who-knows-how-many years, and if Alfred wasn't so damn _furious_ about it, he might have commended the state for having the guts to actually carry through the deed that they had been toting around like a loaded gun for the past half century. _

_ "When South Carolina even threatened to secede in 1832, Andrew Jackson—" Alfred began, but Buchanan quickly cut him off with an authority that he had no right to possess._

_ "Times are different now, _boy_," Buchanan said, dragging the last word out as if he were stretching the syllables like taffy. "It's no longer 1832, and Jackson, I'm afraid, is dead."_

You would be of better use dead, _Alfred wanted to shout, but, in what perhaps was one of the hardest acts of self-control in his life, he took a deep breath and said in as even of a tone as he could muster, "The times aren't different, and even if they are, they haven't changed that much."_

_ "You don't quite understand, I think." Buchanan tapped his fingers on the desk in what Alfred perceived as restrained annoyance. "I don't have the constitutional power to—"_

_ "Damn you!" Alfred snapped, leaping up from his seat so quickly that he knocked the chair to the ground. He leaned over the desk, his hands gripping the edge of the table in order to prevent them from latching onto Buchanan's neck. "The_ country—my_ country—is falling apart, and you're sitting here, on your ass, telling me that you don't have the_ constitutionalpower_ to stop it?"_

_ "I understand you are upset," Buchanan said, his face as blank as a slate. Alfred didn't think he knew how much danger he was in at the moment. "But, you see, the law is of first importance."_

_ "It's not damn legal to secede from the Union either!" _

_ "But we must be better men than them. We must obey what our forefathers have put down for us."_

_ "So, you aren't going to do anything about the secession?" Alfred whispered. His fingernails dug further into the wood of the desk, even as splinters bit at his skin._

_ "No." Buchanan faced him with what was supposed to pass as presidential authority. "I'm not."_

_ "I see." Alfred stepped backward, giving Buchanan enough time to relax. Then, he lunged for the president's throat._

* * *

Alfred woke up to the sound of his own screaming. In a sickening twist of motion, he lurched upwards on the bed, his hands still grasping for Buchanan's neck, the shrill ring of a cry of fury and despair echoing in his ears.

"Mr. Jones!" A warm pair of hands seized his wrists and with a gentle but firm insistence pressed them back on the bed. "Calm down!"

Alfred kept struggling, his limbs flailing around in a wild frenzy, trying to make his legs work in some kind of coordinated order so he could launch himself off the bed to go and throttle Buchanan like a Thanksgiving turkey. Alfred could already see Buchanan's soft face turning purple under his choking grip, his blank eyes growing wide with the realization that he was being efficiently strangled by the personification of the nation that, under any normal circumstance, should not lay a hand on the president.

"Damn it! Let me go!" Alfred shouted, as another pair of hands joined the first, attempting to shove him against the mattress in forced rest. "Let me go! He'll get away! _He'll get away_!"

"Mr. Jones!" a voice cried out. "Stop it! Mr. Jones!"

"_Alfred_!" another voice, deeper, lashed out, and Alfred stopped as he realized that the voice belonged to Wallace, that he was in his bedroom and not Buchanan's office, and that it was the summer of 1862 and not the winter of 1860.

"What—" Alfred trailed off, the adrenaline dissipating from his veins as fast as it had come, a heavy dizziness starting to batter at his temples. "Wallace…What are you doing here?"

Wallace was the Communicator of the nation, a middleman between the national personification and the president. Back in the days right after the Revolution, a Communicator hadn't been necessary, as George Washington and John Adams had handled interactions with Alfred personally. After all, the nation was new, and establishing that crucial bond between country leader and country symbol was of utmost importance. However, as time passed and the nation became stronger and ultimately more complex, it became a distinctive reality that the president no longer had enough time to have daily fireside chats with Alfred, and that Alfred no longer had the attention span to listen to every single national detail that happened every single day.

It wasn't that Alfred didn't care enough about his country to bear with the growing multitude of national concerns—it was just the plain fact that being cooped up in the White House, with nothing but Jefferson's never-ending lists of ever-detailed issues to look forward to, was unbearable. A Communicator—which Jefferson had proposed after Alfred had unceremoniously fallen asleep during one of their meetings—eased the strain, and as a bonus, gave Alfred the freedom to be in the countryside—or at least have some breathing space from the capital. The Communicator, at the end of every month, personally traveled to Alfred's home to fill him in on only the most important topics at hand—and sure, Alfred missed the sense of closeness with the president, but God, it was so nice to be _free_ again.

Wallace had been the Communicator for more than two decades. Having entered the job as a thirty-year-old man, he was now, at the stout age of fifty-seven, comparably ancient. Most Communicators quit after a decade, but Wallace had stayed, still as no-nonsense and devoted as he had been in the beginning, although there were more wrinkles cutting across his face and more gray hairs on his scalp.

Wallace should be in Washington, with President Lincoln. The last time Alfred checked, it wasn't the last day of the month yet. But there he was, his lips twisted in a scowl, his blond hair sticking up in all directions, and his clothes unusually rumpled.

"What _I'm_ doing here!" Wallace growled. He leaned over the bed, his grey eyes matching Alfred's blue ones with a barely bridled, but still unidentifiable, emotion. "That should be clear enough. Or did that bullet in your head rip away more than your skull?"

"Bullet…?" Alfred automatically touched his forehead, feeling the scratch of bandages. He tried to recall the last few minutes before he had become unconscious, but failed. "Was I shot?"

Wallace laughed, a bitter sound. "Shot! Shot! Yes, you were _shot_."

"By who?" Alfred asked. So he had been killed—well, that was a serious matter. No wonder Wallace was here. But there was something to the anger sparking in Wallace's eyes that Alfred couldn't quite place—a touch of fear, maybe.

"Mr. Whitfield, maybe you should lay off him for a while. He's just woken up after all."

Alfred turned to the voice, calmer than Wallace's, but still tinged with that same strange emotion that may or may not be fear. Phillip. When their eyes met, Phillip gave him a wan smile that Alfred supposed was intended to be reassuring. It was the same smile that Phillip had given him when Alfred had seen the scars of whip lashes on Phillip's back one day—a sad smile that hoped to conceal a terrible secret but showed more than it hid.

Wallace exhaled heavily. "I know. I know. It's just that—" He gestured at Alfred in frustration.

"I agree," Phillip said. "It's a…serious matter."

"Serious?" Alfred said. "I don't—_what happened_?"

Phillip and Wallace both looked at him then, Phillip's gaze filled with pity, Wallace's with worry. In an almost imperceptible movement, Wallace nodded to Phillip, who then said quietly, "Mr. Jones…You shot yourself in the head in the woods three days ago."

As soon as the sentence left Phillip's mouth, the memory of the event flooded Alfred's head. The agony as the battle raged on in his mind, as he felt the deaths of his countrymen again and again. The desperation as he had reached for the gun on the ground, as the cold of the metal bit into his palm. And then, the absolute, blessed _relief_ of experiencing nothing as the war was shut out in decisive finality.

"Oh," Alfred managed to say.

"_Oh_," Wallace mocked. "Yes, _oh_."

"Mr. Jones, you won't believe how worried I was when I found you," Phillip said, looking at the bed, the table, anything but Alfred's pale face. "When I saw you on the ground—and your eyes!" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones. I should've been there sooner."

"Phillip told me what happened," Wallace said. "How you were dragged off into the woods by those two…" His lip curled as if he tasted something rancid. "_assassins_. That explains the gunshot wound in your chest. That also might've explained that bullet through your skull, if it weren't for the fact that you were holding the gun."

"Wallace, I—"

"Be quiet, Alfred," Wallace cut in, with swift and brutal efficiency. "Whatever you were going to say to me was only going to make it worse. It's already bad enough as it is. How could you even—" Wallace stopped and let out a heavy breath.

"Did you ever catch them? The assassins?" Alfred asked slowly, not sure if Wallace was inches from punching him or from breaking down.

"They got away, Mr. Jones," Phillip said. "I was too slow—if I had arrived sooner, I might've caught them and stopped you from…" He didn't finish, and Alfred was glad for it.

"They said they were from Virginia," Alfred said, wanting Phillip and Wallace to meet his eyes, to _look at him_, and look at him like he wasn't some lunatic who needed to be sent to an institution.

Wallace snorted. "Of course—damn Confederacy. Thought they would win the war in one day."

_The war_…Alfred bit his lip. No matter how many wars he had fought, the first battle of a new war was always the worst, always catching him by surprise, just like Bull Run had a few days ago. There was no getting use to that feeling, that first stab of agony as his people's blood was spilled into the ground. It got better—the sharp jabs of pain with every conflict melted into a self-sympathizing ache that seeped into Alfred's bones—but that didn't make the first day's pain any less real. Sometimes Alfred wondered how the older nations, Arthur especially, were able to go through that experience so many times without going mad.

"Did we win?" Alfred asked suddenly, although he wasn't sure if he actually wanted to hear the answer to that question or not.

"No," Wallace said, though not unkindly. "We lost."

"Ah—" Alfred gasped, and he felt his fingers tighten reflexively around the sheet below him. So all of that pain, all of those lives lost, meant nothing—nothing, nothing! Damn! Damn! Damn!

"I'm sorry," Phillip whispered. He gripped Alfred's shoulder in comfort.

"Yes," Wallace said stiffly. "But, if anything, that battle proved that we're in for a fight."

"We can't let them win!" Alfred cried out, his hands shooting up to grab Wallace's collar, yanking Wallace's face so close to his own that he could feel Wallace breaths on his skin. "We can't let the Confederates win!"

"Let go of me, Alfred," Wallace said. "I didn't say that we would. Lincoln's even more—I wouldn't say motivated, but you know what I mean. He's going to try his damn hardest to keep the Union together, as will we all."

"Good." Alfred sank back into the bed, feeling drained. "That's good."

"I'll leave you to get some rest, Alfred," Wallace said. "I have to send a message to Lincoln, saying that you're in one piece. He felt it, you know. When you died."

Alfred nodded. The presidents who were closest with their nation, who lived for serving it to their utmost potential, often were linked with the national personification. Bound, almost, by a mutual love for the homeland. It didn't surprise Alfred that Lincoln shared that bond with him—nor had it surprise him when he had learned that Buchanan had not. Lincoln would guide the nation during this terrible time—he would keep the Union together, like he had promised that night after his election. Alfred trusted him, with more than his life—he trusted him with his country.

Wallace paused at the doorway, and with a sudden turn of his heel, he said, "Alfred. Lincoln is not here, so I will give you this order in his place. _You will not pull another stunt like that again_. Am I clear?"

"Yes, _sir_," Alfred murmured, feeling the weight of the command sink into his body. "I promise."

Wallace nodded, a sharp jerk of his head, and slipped out of the room.

"He was very worried about you," Phillip said, breaking the heavy silence that had settled in the air since Wallace's departure.

"I know."

"He—I think he thinks of you as his son."

"I know."

"Mr. Jones." Phillip paused, and then, in a tumble of words, whispered, "He isn't the only one." He softly brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across Alfred's forehead. In a low voice, he said, "I thought my heart would stop when I saw you lying there. It reminded me of—"

"I'm _okay_," Alfred interrupted, wanting to spare Phillip from saying _that_. He knew the way that Phillip's son had gone out so many years ago, when Phillip had still been a slave. What had happened had been terrible, so horrific that it had spurred Phillip to take the mad chance and dash to the north to find some kind of peace and freedom from the nightmare he had been living.

"Get some rest, Mr. Jones. The Union will be here when you wake up."

Alfred laughed, a bitter, broken sound that fell through the air like a stone. "I hope so."

"You'll see." Phillip wrapped the blanket around Alfred's body tighter, almost as if he were securing Alfred down for the times to come. "It will be all right."

* * *

Author Note:

So there's Chapter Two. Not much happened, but I hope it still made for a good read. As always, leave a review if you want to see more! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

Alfred wondered if Arthur still thought of him.

He usually wasn't so sentimental about the past, and, after all, nothing could change what had happened or repair what had been—not lost, but let go—but here he was, peeling apples in an attempt to busy himself with _something_, and those thoughts had crept in again, the "what-ifs" and "could-haves." Dangerous thoughts—treacherous thoughts.

Thoughts about how, maybe, it wouldn't be so _bad_ to go back to Arthur, to let Arthur take care of him, to embrace him with his familiar arms and whisper to him that everything would be all right in the end, and Alfred didn't even have to twitch a finger. Alfred could just sit and smile and the world would right itself at Arthur's command, and at the end of the day, it would be just the two of them, father and son, leaning against each other in the dim twilight, listening to the chirp of crickets in the yard and watching the glimmer of stars sweep across the sprawling night sky.

Hell, maybe if Alfred hadn't become independent, this Civil War wouldn't have even started. Maybe South Carolina wouldn't have decided to go ahead and secede from the Union, with all those other blasted southern states following its lead. Maybe _Johnny_ wouldn't have ever come into existence, the Confederacy only a dim fantasy that would drift off with other forsaken images of the future.

Maybe freedom wasn't worth this constant agony, this sometimes-suffocating burden of responsibility, this never-ending present of being Atlas with the world—or, at the very least, a country—on his shoulders. Maybe it was better to be safe in that quiet, ignorant bliss that was his life as a colony under Arthur's rule. Maybe it was better to bow down to that proud empire, beg to be welcomed back into his fold, kneeling in subjugation like the countless other colonies under Britain's firm reigns, with life, liberty, and happiness not decided by the people of the country but by some foreign body that knew next to nothing about the place it governed! Hah!

Well, it wasn't as if Arthur would let Alfred come back anyway, so easily as if the Revolution hadn't occurred, as if those lines hadn't been carved into the sand, as if those ever-existing but unidentifiable limits hadn't been crossed. And, as if those dark green eyes hadn't looked up at him that day in Yorktown through the thin gauze of rain or tears or both, burning with fury, regret, and complete and utter heartbreak.

What Alfred had committed was, in its most raw sense, treason to the empire, but more so, a personal betrayal to his own father. Alfred had always known that Arthur had cared about him, that he was one of the few people that Arthur actually showed more than his constant mask of contemptuous scorn, but he hadn't known how deep those feeling were until that day—when Arthur had cried.

But, no, he didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about the price he had paid for his own independence. Was that cowardly of him, to will himself to block those memories out? Did that only prove that Arthur was right, that he was just a scared, little boy dressing up in adult clothes to pass for something more than what he really was? Sometimes Alfred felt like he was trying, and trying, and trying in vain for some unattainable goal, for some figment of his imagination of what the hell a personification was. He wanted to join that collected club of other ancient countries, but they seemed so, so, so _damn far away_—!

The knife slipped and bit into Alfred's thumb. And, then, with a sudden nauseous lurch of frustration and despair, Alfred hurled the blade at the wall, where it embedded itself with a decisive _thud_ in the wood.

"Mr. Jones?" a soft voice whispered, and Alfred looked up, still dizzy with emotion, adrenaline still rushing through his veins with unnecessarily hot urgency.

"Phillip…" Alfred blushed, embarrassed at the lack of self-control he had just displayed. For Christ's sake, he was over two hundred years old! He should be calm and wise—but, lately, Alfred had felt nothing like that. No, he felt like a child, playing chess against a master who kept changing the rules on whim. Alfred used to think that there were natural laws in the world, laws that controlled and prohibited fate even—but he was wrong. As always. "I'm sorry."

"No, Mr. Jones. Don't apologize." Phillip pried the knife from the wall and placed it with comforting efficiency on a nearby table. "We're all allowed to _feel _once in a while. Especially you."

"But—I—" Alfred shook his head, his nails digging into his palms.

Phillip settled in the chair next to him. "Mr. Jones, you aren't expected to be perfect."

"Yes, I am!" Alfred snapped. Words tumbled out of him in a rush, as if a floodgate had been opened. "I'm the damn _national personification_. I _represent_ this damn country. And, right now, I'm sitting on my _ass_ while people out there, my people, are rotting away on battlefields or in hospital beds or in graves!"

Phillip didn't flinch at the outburst, although a corner of his mouth twitched. "You're not God, Mr. Jones," he said slowly.

Alfred laughed, a dry sound that seemed to drop like a stone in the still air. "But I'm not human, am I?"

"No, you're not," Phillip murmured and then ran his fingers across the cut on Alfred's thumb, which had already sealed, a light pink against tanned skin. "When did this happen?"

"What?" Alfred looked at his hand, at the cut, at the blood that still coated the skin. "A few minutes ago."

"And it's already healed, Mr. Jones."

Alfred had the distinct feeling that he was being set up, but he said anyway, "So? You know how I work."

"Do you know how many people would want to have this power, to be able to recover so quickly? Mr. Jones, you were given a _gift_ when you were born, even though you might not see it now."

Alfred snorted. "It's been feeling like a curse lately, Phillip." He sighed heavily. "Sometimes…sometimes I just want to have the option of—well." Alfred shrugged. "Of _stopping_, I guess. Just to have the possibility of not being here anymore."

Although Phillip's face didn't change, Alfred could hear a note of alarm in his voice when he said carefully, "Mr. Jones, what are you saying?"

"Nothing." Alfred met Phillip's brown eyes. "I—I don't know what I was thinking. Don't worry about it."

"Are you talking about…suicide, Mr. Jones?" Phillip whispered, and Alfred thought that he heard a quiver in his words.

"No. Well—no. No, I'm not." He gripped Phillip's shoulder. "Don't worry. I won't try anything."

Phillip didn't reply, but he didn't shrug off Alfred's hand either. Instead, he said, after a long stretch of silence, "My son didn't get the chances you had, Mr. Jones." He took a shaky breath. "When the bullet went through his skull, he didn't wake up again."

"I'm sorry," Alfred said, although he knew that the words were too inadequate to be of any use. He wished that he hadn't mentioned anything at all, especially given Phillip's past. How could he have been so callous? Phillip's son had committed suicide so many years ago, and even though Phillip hid his secrets well, that was one secret that had managed to slip past his careful guard.

"No…no, it's all right." Phillip nodded, as if to assure himself, and he gave that familiar, worn-out and weary smile again, tinged with melancholy and mourning and grief. "It's…it's over, after all. It's over."

_But it won't ever be over, will it?_ Alfred thought. Because, right now, far into Confederate territory, on a dusty plantation in the middle of nowhere, there probably was another soul like Phillip, who was about to witness the horror of what had happened to Phillip's son.

He hadn't told Alfred the whole story, but he had told enough. About how Phillip's son had fallen in love with the planter's daughter, with her bronze curls and light eyes and dancing, quick mouth. About how they had had plans to sneak away to the north, away from the cotton fields and rice paddies, away from the prying eyes of her father and mother, where they could both be free from Southern expectations and judgments. It was foolish, idealistic, and broken all too soon, because her father had found them leaning against each other under the shade of the orchard trees—and when Phillip had reached this part in the story, he had stopped, swallowed, and clenched his jaw because he couldn't speak about what had happened to his son then.

He finished by telling, in a terse, clipped voice, about how he had talked to his son the night after, who had had a gun he had stolen pressed up against his temple. His son didn't want to die under the planter's hands, not after already suffering such humiliations under that corrupted body. He shot himself right in front of Phillip's eyes, and the planter, when he came to finish the job that he had started, had given one look at the cold body on the floor and the blood spattered on Phillip's shirt and had _laughed_.

Phillip ran away the week after. And, somehow, through a combination of luck, skill, and God, he had ended up here, at Alfred's house. Alfred would always remember that day, when he had found a strange man, dressed in rags but with keen eyes, holding the reins to one of Alfred's horses in the stable. Phillip probably had expected a fight. Instead, he had found a meal, a friend, and a home to stay.

Alfred leaned forward and rested against Phillip's shoulder. Phillip stiffened for a moment and then wrapped his arms around Alfred in return, his fingers tracing patterns on Alfred's shirt in a fatherly, warm gesture of acceptance.

_This would be scandalous in the South_, Alfred thought, closing his eyes and listening to the hushes of his and Phillip's breath in the still room. But, now, it didn't feel any different than when Arthur had held him so many years ago, and Alfred could almost pretend that it was Arthur _here_, that he was still young, and the days were still green, and the future was brimming with that kind of singular splendor of childhood that refused to fade with each passing day.

He heard Phillip begin to hum an old folksong of his. And, as Alfred drifted off into sleep, imagining the notes swaying and thrumming with each inhale and exhale of his lungs, he thought he felt the soft press of lips on his cheek.

* * *

Author's Note:

Wow, it's been a long time, but here's Chapter Three. I know, I know-this is another one of those "character development" chapters, but there'll be action in the next. As always, leave a review if you want to see more! :)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

As he leveled the rifle at his target, Alfred couldn't help but marvel at how easy this had all become. There was a time before—when Arthur had first taught him how to shoot and still, even years afterward—that the gun would shake in his hands no matter how hard Alfred gripped it, but now, Alfred felt as if the weapon was just an extension of his own arm, a metal appendage that was able to link his thoughts with his actions with a kind of swift intensity.

To be honest, Alfred couldn't recall the exact date when the nervousness had stopped, when his knuckles had no longer turned white and his finger had no longer twitched in spasms on the trigger, but he would bet it was sometime at the beginning of the Revolution. When Arthur had no longer been by his side but rather was the enemy, when Arthur was no longer a protector but rather an equal, something had changed in the way the battlefield had looked as Alfred marched forward—and he was able to hold the gun steadily, aiming down at the line of seemingly never-ending redcoats in the distance with singular concentration.

Perhaps it was because Alfred, then, was truly alone, that there was no one out there to look after him, and he could no longer afford any mistakes that came out of hesitation on his part. Perhaps it was because Arthur's sharp eyes no longer watched him, judging and criticizing him with unnamed authority. Or perhaps it was because the Revolution had forced Alfred to grow up, and adults no longer paused when pulling the trigger.

He didn't know. But, at some point in his life, killing didn't seem to, well, _matter as much anymore_. Alfred still hated taking lives—there was still a profound sinking in his gut whenever he stilled a person's heart—but there was not as much guilt, not as much terror. There was only the weapon in his hands and the target in front of him and an indescribable calm.

So many years ago, during the French and Indian War, he had seen Arthur fight on the plains of Quebec with the forces of James Wolfe against the army of Louis-Joseph de Montcalm. He remembered being struck by both awe and fear as he saw Arthur slash his way through the enemy, spearing and gutting and shooting with such efficiency that it seemed that he was not thinking about all the people he was sending to their graves at all. Alfred remembered that he had wished that he could be like that too one day, so level-headed, so brave. Alfred also remembered that, at the same time, he had hoped that he would not ever become so detached from the grotesque horror of death and war.

Alfred shook his head slightly in an attempt to return to the task at hand. _It was what it was_—the simple truth of his life so far, and he couldn't help but feel that despite his earlier days of rebellion and protest, he had settled down or mellowed or even softened somewhat, because there had been a growing sense of resignation toward his own situation these days. Perhaps Johnny had stolen that old spark of eagerness when he had stolen Fort Sumter, igniting the Civil War wholly and terribly—or, even worse, perhaps that bright burning that had once defined Alfred's life as a nation had just quietly smoldered into dull embers. In any case, Alfred could now understand what it felt like to be _old_.

He chuckled softly to himself. Was this emptiness what Arthur had felt during the Revolution? Just this creeping apathy, numbing like ether, and also this—pity? Alfred could see Arthur's face that day in New York as clear as if it had happened yesterday, though it was almost a century ago. In the midst of the ash and smoke of a dying city, Arthur had looked down at him in the alleyway and despite his blurred vision—from blood loss or tears or maybe both—Alfred had seen the expression on his former father's face.

There had been no rage. There had been no bitterness. There hadn't even been any triumph, just this blankness, and Alfred thought that Arthur might have said to him in his eternally crisp monotone, "Do you see now? Do you see what all of your childish rebellion was worth?" if gunfire from Washington's troops hadn't interrupted them. It wouldn't be a taunt; no, it'd just be a statement of fact, and God, Alfred had the distinct feeling that if given the chance, he would tell Johnny the exact same thing.

Because, in the end, what a wretched existence this was, to be a nation! To conquer or to be conquered. To kill or to be killed. To be the victor bound by a blood-drenched throne or to be the slave bound by blood-drenched manacles. Whatever this fantasy of peace that Johnny entertained would be gained by wining the Civil War was just that—a dream. Wars never ended. Countries never slept. Alfred wouldn't chose this life for anyone, and he realized now just how resilient, how _strong_ Arthur was for lasting so long.

Alfred sighed and returned to eyeing the rabbit, nosing around the grass. He had gone hunting today because hunting helped clear his head, helped settle his nerves, helped ease some of the strain of being a nation, but he had only managed to get more riled up. Well, at least he would get a good dinner out of this mess of emotion.

A sudden crackle of twigs to his right startled Alfred just as he pressed the trigger, and his shot flew a few inches too far to the left, the bullet imbedding itself in bark. The rabbit leaped and bounded through the underbrush, disappearing into the foliage.

Cursing, Alfred whipped his gun to where the disturbance had come from-expecting the assassins again, come to finish the task, or some new terror the Confederacy had concocted-only to find himself face-to-face with a girl, no older than seventeen, her hands thrown up in a universal gesture of surrender.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice quivering although Alfred could tell that she was trying to remain composed. "I—I was just—"

"No. No, it's all right." Alfred released a breath that he hadn't noticed he had been holding. "You just…surprised me."

"I really shouldn't have been watching. I normally don't snoop, but…" She trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words.

Alfred surveyed the girl in front of him. She certainly didn't seem dangerous, with her wide eyes and thin wrists, and Alfred couldn't make out any weapons, concealed or otherwise. Then again, the Confederacy was known to throw out the unexpected—sneaky bastards.

Alfred forced the edges of his mouth to jerk upward in what he hoped was a smile, not a grimace. "No, I'm sorry." When he saw her eyes flick back and forth between his face and the rifle in his hands, he lowered the gun and leaned it against a tree. _To hell with it_, he thought. _Let what may come happen._

He gave a quick, awkward half-bow, the etiquette Arthur had drilled into him kicking in. "I'm Alfred."

"Sarah," she replied, although she looked at him strangely, as if she was looking behind him, or at the side of him, but not _at_ him.

"Sarah," he repeated, and, trying to diffuse the tension, he said, "It's…it's nice to meet you."

As she continued to watch him with that same tilted stare, he said, though not unkindly, "What is it?"

"Oh!" She shook her head. "Nothing. I'm sorry. I'm being rude. It's just that—well, you aren't who I expected you to be."

Alfred didn't reply, inviting her to continue.

She blushed, her fingers wringing at her dress. "People have many impressions of you…Alfred."

"Impressions?" He was aware that the local townspeople knew about his existence—or at the very least, of someone's existence in the woods. Despite Wallace's best attempts to hush up the builders of house, they had still talked, and besides, the nearby farmers and villagers would have to be remarkably ignorant if they hadn't noticed the mansion sticking out in the middle of the woods like a sore thumb after sixty years.

However, Alfred had never given much thought to them and their opinions of him. Wallace had chosen this location in part because the people around weren't too curious—they minded their own business, and despite occasional pricks of eagerness, were quite complacent in just accepting facts that had been handed to them—and had left the matter at that. In fact, Alfred had never even visited the town only a few miles down the road. Sure, he had been tempted to sneak out once in a while, but otherwise, there was no need since everything was duly delivered to the house under federal instruction. Besides, he couldn't risk being taken back to Washington, back to the White House to be spied upon, just because he had been too _bored_ to follow rules.

"Yes." She dropped her voice to a whisper, and said, almost conspiratorially, "Some say that you're related to a lost prince of England, exiled during the Revolution after he supported our side."

"Really?" Alfred raised an eyebrow in amusement—that, actually for the most part, wasn't _that_ much of a stretch. "What else?"

"Well, a few like to think that you're the descendent of a baron from Germany. And—" She laughed slightly. "Mr. Patterson told me once that you were a vampire, although he's quite mad."

Alfred grinned. "Now that's original." Then, he said softly, "What about you? What do you think?"

"Me?" She looked down, avoiding his eyes, focusing instead on her scuffed boots. "I don't really think anything," she admitted.

"I don't believe that," Alfred said. "You must have _some_ kind of story about me."

She pursed her lips. "No. I only thought that—well, you were a _man_." She looked at him, an inscrutable expression on her face. "A lonely man in the middle of the woods."

"And?" Alfred prodded. "What do you think now?"

She shrugged under some semblance of nonchalance, although she said, hesitantly, "You haven't told me anything yet."

"But, wait…" Alfred eyed her curiously. "How do you even know that I'm the person you're looking for? I could just be a hunter wandering around here."

She stared at him, confused, as if he had just asked a question with the most obvious answer in the world. "Why, Alfred, there's nobody _around_ here but you. We were told to never go into these woods ever since sixty years ago. Ever since they built the mansion."

"But you're here now."

"I couldn't help it." She bit her lip. "Everyone in the town…they only speculate about you, but I wanted to find out the truth." She peered at him with her bright, green eyes, and Alfred was struck for the first time of how similar her eyes were to Arthur's, like the fresh leaves of spring. "Do you think you could…share with me that?"

"I can't tell you," Alfred said. "I'm sorry." He couldn't possibly answer honestly—the whole concept of being a Personification of a nation was just too complex, and besides, the last thing that Lincoln needed was to get a ransom letter on his desk: give us one million dollars in exchange for Alfred, the embodiment of your nation.

"Oh." She seemed to visibly deflate.

Noticing her disappointment, he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, "But…listen, since you came all this way, I guess—I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell you a little bit."

She perked up instantly. "That would be amazing."

"You'd have to swear to secrecy first though," Alfred said, although he knew that swearing meant nothing these days, but he couldn't help but think that this girl, this young, innocent girl, wouldn't betray his trust in her, and—it might be nice to get a few things off of his chest.

She nodded vigorously. "I do. I won't tell anybody. I promise."

And, so, he began. He told her about Arthur, whom he painted as an Englishman of noble lineage, whose ancestors had once been pirates and conquerors before settling into the roles of governors and entrepreneurs. He told her about how close Arthur and he had been, about how when he was younger, Arthur used to take him out to the open fields to watch the sunset, about how Arthur had rocked him to sleep with sweet lullabies after horrific but unexplainable nightmares. He even mentioned Arthur's horrid cooking—which, as Alfred thought back on it, hadn't seemed so terrible at the time.

He told her about how they had fallen apart, due to _differences in opinion_, he put it through gritted teeth. How Alfred had started chaffing under Arthur's obsessive control, and how desperately he had yearned and needed to be free. He told her about that night when he had first declared his intention to become independent, and how, Arthur for the first and only time in Alfred's life so far, had struck him, a sudden, quick slap to his cheek, and how Alfred had made no move to stop him even though he could have, and had made no move to retaliate.

The manor, he explained, Arthur had left for him, as well as a decent sum of money that Alfred would have to make sustain him for the rest of his life. And so, then, Alfred had stayed here ever since—and he added with somewhat of a melancholy flair—waiting for Arthur to come back, to send him a letter, to do anything to say that he still cared.

By the end of the story, even Alfred wasn't sure what was true and what was not. He even had started believing in the whole thing himself, because the emotions he had felt while telling the tale were wholly true, even if the facts were not. Because, God, he did _miss_ Arthur so, so, so damn much, and yes, there were times when he closed his eyes and thought to himself—_in a few minutes, Arthur will come home…he'll knock on the door three times like he did before, turn the key in the lock, and step in and ruffle my hair…_

When Alfred stopped speaking, Sarah wiped her eyes with a quick smear of her finger in an attempt to be discreet, and she said, "That was…that was very beautiful."

He laughed, although there was no humor in his voice, just sadness. "I'm glad you think so."

"Alfred—" She turned to him. "You must not lose hope. Your father…he could come back one day."

Alfred nodded, although he knew that that was just a fantasy that he should have buried long ago, but he still kept with some kind of stubborn and desperate longing.

"What about you, Sarah?" he said abruptly, trying to change the topic. "What do you do?"

"Nothing like that," she said, seeming ashamed. "My life is very typical…and already laid out for me. I'm supposed to marry, have three children, settle down and be a housewife." She eyed the toe of her shoes. "I don't want to…but what choice do _I_ have? I can read, I can do math, but in the end, I'll just stay in that dusty town, like my mother, and her mother before." She let out a frustrated sigh. "_That's_ what I'll do."

"Maybe…maybe it's better to have everything so sorted out," Alfred ventured cautiously. He knew that same ache for freedom, but now, as he looked back on his life, he wasn't quite sure if it was all worth it in the end.

"Do you think so?" She gave him a look caught between hopelessness and bitterness. "Maybe it's different for men."

"Maybe." He leaned back against the tree. "But—I don't know. I just want to be stable for once. To stop…_thinking_ and just _be_." He turned to her. "Do you understand?"

She nodded, but then said quietly, "I don't agree though. There just something _nice_ about being able to do whatever you want, free from rules.

Then, she added, "Alfred, I wasn't being entirely honest when I said I came here to look for you." She turned to him, her eyes burning with some unknown emotion. "I came here also because—well, I wanted to do something _I_ cared about for a change. My whole life…I've been following other people's orders, and so, I just got so frustrated that I had to say—_damn them all_." She rested her head on her knees in contemplation. "It's stupid, I know."

"No…Actually…" Alfred smiled wanly. "It's _admirable_."

But, there, he supposed, was the difference between he and the humans around him. People, with their short lives compared to the lives of Personifications, needed to use their limited time on Earth to their fullest, and it then made sense for them to pursue freedom, because who would want to waste away in chains when there was such a little span of existence available? And, because their presence was so brief, they could afford to be independent, because they wouldn't know the full burden of their actions—they would only know the joy and relief of making choices, of being able to wander this way and that way without a care for any master, and maybe, a few times in their life, they would wonder if it was all worth it in the end, and perhaps, at some point, they might even begin to doubt their decision to live without shackles, but their doubt soon ended with their death, sealed with their tombstone.

But, Alfred and the others like him, those lofty beings called Personifications—they didn't have the luxury of a nearing end for comfort. No, their lives were unpredictably continuous, stretching for what seemed like forever into the distance, and so they would know eventually that maybe it was better when they had been ruled instead of being the rulers.

It was in these times that Alfred wished that he could be human. To know that whatever mistakes he made, there was a definitive exit in the end. Heaven or hell or limbo or reincarnation or nothing at all, but there was _a way out_, something drawing closer and closer with each passing day.

Alfred had once asked Arthur where Personifications went when they died or came to something that resembled death. Arthur had only wrapped him in his warm arms and said in a shaken voice that he didn't need to worry about that right now, that he shouldn't ever have to worry about that, because Arthur would be there to prevent him from dying or disappearing or whatever they did when their time came.

_Is that promise still valid_? Alfred thought, looking at the sky above, wondering where Arthur was now, and what he was doing, and if he still looked out of the window at night in melancholy or if he had long gotten over the loss of his son. _Do you still care?_

Alfred wasn't sure that he wanted to hear the answer to those questions.

* * *

Author's Note:

This has to be the longest chapter I've written so far for this story, and I hope it didn't drag on too much (although that's a definite possibility). A big change is coming up, though, for Alfred in the next chapter (that was a hint, or something along those lines). As always, leave a review if you liked the story and want to see more! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

"You did _what_?" Wallace exclaimed, knocking over a bottle of ink in a sudden jerk of movement. He swore as the letter he had been writing was swamped with black.

"What—nothing!" Alfred replied hastily, although he couldn't meet Wallace's eyes. He had only been talking about his brief hunting trip, really idle banter than any real attempt at conversation, and in the midst of describing how he had been _this close_ to shooting a rabbit, he had mentioned—in passing!—how a girl had broken his concentration and had begun to talk to him. How was he supposed to know that Wallace would hone in on those few words with an almost supernatural fine-combed efficiency at grooming any sentence for suspicious, questionable material? _Damn!_

"No, that was definitely something." Wallace gave him his trademark glare, filled with enough condemnation that Alfred felt obliged to confess—although he was _not_ at fault—and said, his fingers digging into the arm of his chair, "So—_so_." He shook his head in mocking disbelief. "What I'm hearing is that you spoke to a girl, a _complete stranger_, in the middle of the woods, without knowing who she was, where she came from, what exactly she wanted—"

"She was just curious," Alfred protested, half in an attempt to calm Wallace down before he blew a blood vessel, half in an attempt to defend himself of the supposed crime he had committed. All right—perhaps Alfred hadn't exactly done what Wallace would have wanted him to do—that is, run away from any potential danger like a frightened hare—but it wasn't the…the _blasphemy_ that Wallace insinuated it was!

"_Just curious_," Wallace sneered.

"It wasn't as if she was an assassin or anything," Alfred said, although he began to feel the familiar creep of irritation up his spine. "She was just from the local town. She knew about the house, and she just—"

"God damn you, Alfred!" Wallace snapped, and Alfred jumped back at how furious he sounded, like a whip whistling through the air. "You know how things are these days! We can't take chances like that. For Christ's sake, don't you ever think for once?"

Something inside Alfred cracked. With barely restrained anger, he said, through clenched teeth, "For the matter, I do think, Wallace." He leaned over the desk, and as he gripped the sides of the table, he thought he heard the wood splinter under his palms. "I knew the risks. I was cautious. I had the damn rifle aimed at her half of the time!"

"No!" Wallace said, rising up in so swift a motion that he almost knocked the chair over. "You were not thinking. If you were thinking, you would have taken off, not make some damn chit-chat about the weather."

"It wasn't chit-chat," Alfred said, resisting the urge to scream. "What? I'm not allowed to have a normal conversation for once, with a normal human being?"

"You are not _normal_, Alfred!" Wallace roared. "Nothing about this damn situation is _normal_, and if you think that I'm going to—"

"Excuse me?" a soft voice interrupted his tirade, and both Alfred and Wallace whirled around to see Phillip in the doorway, holding a handful of letters. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine, Phillip," Wallace said, and even though the words were smooth, his face still twitched this way and that as he struggled to regain some semblance of composure. "Alfred and I are just having a minor disagreement."

"No—no!" Alfred shouted, and he paused for a moment, surprised himself at just how loud the outburst was. Then, he said, not sure who he was addressing, but certain that something needed to be put out there, "Everything is not fine! You!" He shoved a finger at Wallace's chest. "You don't know anything about what it's like to be me, what it's like to go through this damn Civil War! You _think_ you know, but you don't. All you do know is how to make it worse, by regulating and—and—" Alfred threw his hands up in frustration. "_God!_"

"I'm doing this for your own good," Wallace spat. "Are you truly _stupid_ enough to not understand that?"

"Mr. Jones," Phillip added, "we only mean the best for you."

"Mean the best?" Alfred laughed bitterly. "That's a joke, isn't it?"

"It's only because you can't take care of yourself!" Wallace said. "Do you think I want to spend my days here, in the middle of nowhere, making sure that you don't off yourself again? For Christ's sake, Alfred, I would _much_ rather be back in Washington with my family."

"Then, go!" Alfred shoved Wallace back so hard that he stumbled, and he might've felt bad if an insuppressible rage wasn't rushing through his veins. "Go back to your family! I don't need you. You're not wanted here!"

"Mr. Jones, you need to calm down," Phillip said, eyeing Alfred as if he were a rabid dog.

"I don't need to calm down!" Alfred bellowed. "I'm tired of being calmed down! Is it that bad, to be _human_ for once? Is that some kind of sin? For one damn second, can't I just let go? Is that too damn much to ask for?"

"That's because you can't control your emotions to _be_ human, Alfred!" Wallace said, biting out each word. "You may be two-hundred-years-old, but you have the temperament of a child!"

"As if you know anything!" Alfred snarled. "Let's switch jobs—let's see how you handle things. Let's see how much better you can do!"

"Everyone just needs to settle down," Phillip said, although from the resignation in his tone, he clearly knew that he could do nothing to remedy what had erupted in the course of fifteen all-too-short minutes.

"Your life is so much easier than mine!" Alfred continued, not noticing that with each word he spoke, Wallace's face grew more red, and his eyes grew more cold. "You only have to carry yourself! I have to carry a whole damn _nation_! You don't know anything about what it's like. All you have to worry about is your pretty little life, and maybe your pretty little wife, and—"

In so quick a motion that Alfred had no time to stop it, Wallace slapped Alfred's face. The sound seemed to echo in the room, and the silence that followed was so thick that it was almost suffocating.

Alfred felt with his fingers at the place where he had been hit, barely acknowledging the dull throb in his jaw. Instead, he looked into Wallace's eyes that burned with such a flurry of emotion that Alfred couldn't distinguish a single one. He turned to Phillip, who only watched him with that familiar sad gaze, although, if Alfred had cared enough to concentrate, there may have been a hint of horror.

It was too much.

Alfred ran from the room, his footsteps pounding down the hall, down the stairs, then out the door. As he raced across the lawn to the stable, he thought he heard Wallace scream at him, some anguished cry that sounded like it had half-stuck in his throat, and he thought he heard someone behind him, closing in. Throwing open the gate to the stable, almost ripping it from its bolts in his hurry, Alfred, as soon as he was inside, began to gather his riding gear, fumbling at the countless buckles and straps. His hands shook so much as he looped and twisted and tied this and that that it took him three tries to fasten the saddle to his most reliable horse.

After the saddle had been secured, he dug through the drawers of the storage cabinet, messily stuffing spare clothes, a small pouch of money, ammunition—anything, really, that seemed appropriate for the occasion—in a sack. Just as he was slinging a rifle on his back, Phillip burst into the stable.

"Mr. Jones!" he said, rushing over to Alfred. "What are you doing?"

"I'm running away!" Alfred replied, and as soon as he spoke those words, he felt an unimaginable joy rushing through him that seemed to couple with the fury searing through his skin to form some sort of heady euphoria.

"This is madness!" Phillip said, although he made no move to stop Alfred from swinging his leg onto the horse.

"No," Alfred said. "No—being here—that's what's insane." He smiled, a grim but triumphant smile. "I get that now."

"You're not thinking rationally, Mr. Jones," Phillip pleaded. "Please. Please get off the horse. Come inside—we'll have everything sorted out."

"But, don't you understand, Phillip?" Alfred said. "I'm tired of things being sorted out. I'm tired of things being always done for me." He leaned down and looked Phillip directly in the eyes. "I want to be _independent_."

He didn't give Phillip a chance to say another word. Instead, he dug his shoes into the horse's sides and spurred it on, out of the barn, into the wild and restless night. But, before he left the mansion's grounds entirely, he threw one almost contemptuous glance back, and he thought he saw, outlined in the glow of the lights of the house, Wallace running towards him from the porch, and Alfred waved at the shadowed figure in a childish display of insolence, because _damn_, did it feel good to defy orders for once.

He didn't know how long he rode or what distance he actually covered when he stopped to rest. He only knew that he was finally free from Wallace, free from Phillip, free from those terrible days of constant oppression that he hadn't before recognized. That house, he realized now, was just as bad as those days when he was cooped up in the White House. He thought he had been his own master in his years in the woods, but he had still been under the government's influence then, even if he was no longer close to the president or his advisors. The mansion was just a façade, a mask to hide the fact that Alfred—he hadn't escaped at all, just changed hands.

Maybe that was why he had felt only constant despair when the Civil War had begun. Maybe that was why the temptation of suicide was always lurking in the back corner of his mind. And maybe that was why he was here now.

Because, Alfred thought, as he tied his horse to a tree and settled onto the ground, his bag of belongings tucked carefully behind his back, his rifle laid casually across his lap, he had been wrong, so, so very wrong about freedom and what it meant to him. The truth was, Alfred needed freedom, craved it—it was etched in his bones and racing through his blood. He hadn't lost that old drive, after all—only buried it because he thought it would have been what Arthur had done, what any _mature_ nation would have done, and Alfred had always wanted to be like them, because he wanted to be _great_ too.

But, Alfred, in the end, was not mature. He was young, he was brash, and yes, he was a fool, but at least he took chances still and believed in himself enough to take a headfirst plunge into the unknown. And maybe, just maybe, this feeling fluttering in chest that was something along the lines of pride—it was here because the future now held a certain kind of allure for him, a thrumming sense of hope that older Personifications had lost…and he had just recently found again.

* * *

Author's Note:

And there's Chapter Five. Is it wrong that I felt stirs of patriotism as I wrote this? Well, never mind that. For all readers out there who have made it this far, thank you for sticking with this story as long as you have! And, as always, if you liked the story, please leave a review! :)


	6. Chapter 6

Warning: This chapter, especially towards the end, has some pretty heavy and graphic material relating to war. If you want to skip this chapter because of that, send me a PM so I can give you a summary of what happened.

* * *

**Chapter Six:**

Alfred woke up with a throbbing headache, an aching knot in his lower back, and no idea where he was. Logically, he should be at home, the covers pulled over his head and a pillow nestled in his arms, but here he was, leaned up against a tree in a shadowed grove, with the distinct sense that a patch of nettles was _very_ close by. Rubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to clear the stubborn haze from his mind, he looked up at the faint beams of sunlight filtering through the dense leaves above and, for just a moment, listened to the world around him—the birds twittering in hidden nooks, the insects droning away in forgotten hollows, the wind whistling in the cracks of the forest.

It had been a long time since he had been this immersed in nature. After he had been civilized—as Arthur had put it once—Alfred had rarely had the chance to go back to his roots, wholly and without compromise. Oh, sure, he took hikes once in a while, just to remind himself that there was more to the world than what was confined in stone and wood houses—the man-made and, ultimately, the artificial—but it had been nearly half a decade since he had actually slept outside. After his last attempt had ended so poorly, what with a drenching downpour and an ill-placed beehive dampening his spirits, he had sworn off the outdoors for, at the time, he had judged to be a few weeks, maybe a couple of months at worst, but that had stretched into almost five years.

How many days had he spent like this when he was little, those days before Arthur had found him, with nothing but the company of himself and the animals around him? Even though he didn't remember those blurred memories of the past as easily as his time after he had been—well, _discovered_, was the politically correct term—Alfred knew that they weren't as barbaric as Arthur had once made them seem. No, they had been…quiet, safe, and—untouched. Yes, that was the right word.

Alfred had struggled to find those feelings again. That sense of openness, as if the sun never had to set, the day never had to end, and everything was accessible and within his reach even though he had been so small. But, right now, he could sense that he was close, very close, to that swell of emotion that he had sought almost desperately before, and—it was nice.

The sound of a horse snorting close to his ear startled Alfred out of his lull. Turning his head, he found himself face-to-face with the animal, who blinked at him with half-lidded, lazy eyes, and with that reminder, what had happened last night came crashing down on him with enough force to make Alfred wince.

Damn.

Alfred sighed and got up, gritting his teeth as his bones cracked and his muscles protested from the sudden change in position, and leaned his head against the horse's neck, his fingers combing through its mane as he tried to piece together what, exactly, he was going to do next.

In retrospect, he should have had at least a plan before he had taken off, with some idea of direction instead of just dashing off with nowhere in mind, but he had been so caught up in the heat of the moment that he had, with his usual flair of impulsivity and dramatics, tore off to the great unknown, armed only with the desire to get away and what little sense had still clung to him. It was good, he though dryly to himself, that he had at least packed _something_, although he doubted that the canteen of water and the few strips of beef jerky in his pouch would sustain him—and the horse, for that matter—for long. He would need to stop at a town, provided there was a town near enough before he or his ride keeled over from heat exhaustion, to supply himself adequately. He would work things out from there.

Yes, that's what he would do. A town, first. Then a concrete plan.

After giving the horse as much water as he could without sacrificing his own needs, he lifted himself onto the saddle and spurred the horse through the brush, ducking and dodging any stray branches that threatened to smack him quite unceremoniously in the face, until he emerged onto the open road. From the looks of it, with trees towering on both sides to form an impressive barrier, he was north of his house—the forests always thinned towards the south—although he couldn't tell anything about his distance from his home, or for that matter, his accurate position.

A few more minutes of riding, the brightening sun beating down on his back without mercy, and Alfred came across a worn sign by the road. Even though the letters were faded beyond belief, he could make out that it was pointing to some village starting with a _W_, either fifteen or eighteen miles forward—he couldn't tell much else from the scratched paint. That, he supposed, would be his destination, and he settled back, somewhat satisfied that he had a faint idea of where he was heading.

As Alfred set a steady pace down the road, with nothing but the sound of the click of hooves on the ground and occasionally the rustle of some bushes as a rabbit or other small animal darted in and out of the shade, his mind wandered to the last time he had run away from home—the only other time, now that he thought about it. Even though it was almost a century in the past, he remembered that instance as clear as if it had happened yesterday. Yes, that fight he had gotten into with Arthur in 1774…it was unfolding before him, as if he were peering through a lens…

* * *

_"What is this?" Alfred shook the stack of paper in front of Arthur's face with such force that the pages sounded like a lash in the air._

_ "If you would stop bloody waving it around, I might actually_ see_," Arthur replied tersely, although by the small twitch at the corner of his mouth and the slight deepening of the crease between his eyebrows, Alfred could tell that Arthur knew exactly what he was talking about._

_ "The—the acts!" Alfred spat, dropping the pamphlets on Arthur's desk and, instead, succeeding in scattering them all over the floor. "Don't play innocent with me," he snapped, when Arthur only leaned back in his chair, rather than, say, explaining himself. "You know what these are. The Intolerable Acts."_

_ "_Coercive_ Acts," Arthur corrected in a prim tone, although Alfred could see the familiar burn of irritation filling Arthur's cheeks. God, if there was anything Arthur hated more, it was disrespect and disobedience._

_ "Intolerable Acts," Alfred seethed. "And you damn well—" Arthur frowned at the expletive "—better explain yourself because-" Alfred jabbed a finger at one of the papers "-these are ridiculous."_

_ "You mean _necessary_," Arthur said, folding his hands on the desk. Noticing Alfred's glare, he said, composed, although Alfred was pushing his buttons relentlessly, "Don't put on that face. After all the trouble you've stirred up, with that little tea party of yours, you're fortunate that the crown didn't place any further restrictions."_

_ "Like what? Send the whole royal navy to my harbors? Suspend all of my legislatures?"_

_ "_Legislatures_?" Arthur stretched the word out with disdain. "You mean your town-hall gatherings? Don't try to pretend that you have anything close to an organized government."_

_ "They're only there because you didn't do anything!" Alfred exploded. He knew that Arthur was only mocking him because that was the way he defended himself when he was backed in a corner, but the toll of the past few months were too much for him to put up with his mentor's—_tendencies_—any longer. He wasn't being fair, but the time for being fair had long passed. "While you were busy building your precious empire, you didn't even care about my colonies—"_

_ "That's not true," Arthur said, rising from his chair to his full stature. Despite being a few inches shorter than Alfred, he was just as, if not even more, imposing. "Don't be an ignorant child. You _know_ that that's not true."_

_ "It's true." Alfred gave a bitter laugh. "And, here's the part that gets me the most. After years, decades even, of neglect, you finally show up, and—what do you do? You start placing all of these unreasonable taxes, as if you had been here all along? As if you had any right!"_

_ "Are you _daft_? Did you forget the part _before_ the taxes? What do you call those years again? Oh—right! The French and Indian War." Arthur shook his head. "If you and that Washington hadn't gone up to Jumonville and started an international incident, I wouldn't have to place any taxes on you. Tell me—" Arthur leaned over the desk, so close that Alfred could feel his breaths on his cheek. "Do you think I like taxing you, Alfred? Do you think I like seeing you—like this? For God's sake—" Here, his voice cracked, whether in exasperation, or some kind of deeper emotion "-I fought those taxes when they were still in Parliament, actually lessened them for your sake. You could show some bloody _appreciation_—"_

_ "Appreciation? Appreciation, for what? Just admit it already. I saw those letters of yours, the ones you always kept locked up—" Arthur's face paled, and Alfred watched as his hand wandered to the drawer to his right, found the lock broken, jerked away as if he had been burned. "I know what you think of me. I know what I am to you."_

_ When Arthur didn't reply, just stared at the table, as if he could see through the wood, see those papers and envelopes that incriminated him, Alfred continued, gaining confidence from Arthur's silence, not noticing the beginnings of pain in Arthur's eyes, "Yes, that's right. I'm nothing more than a—a _market_ to you. A place to feed the motherland, isn't that right?"_

_ "Alfred—"_

_ "No! Don't deny it. You wrote it with your own hand." Alfred shook his head in contempt. "What were those words again? Oh—of course. 'I believe that this land will prove to be of great value for the crown, especially because of its abundant natural resources—and, now that I have befriended the national personification, it should be—" Alfred paused, startled by the sudden lump in his throat, before forcing the rest of the sentence out. "—it should be easy to gain his territory." Alfred twisted the words at the end. He drew closer to Arthur, so that their foreheads were touching. "Is that what I was to you, Arthur?"_

_ Arthur pushed Alfred away. "That was a long time ago, Alfred. If you had bothered to look at the dates of those letters—"_

_ "But it still was there, wasn't it?" Alfred stepped back, finding that his vision had gone blurry, but not wanting to think that it was because of tears. In a quieter voice, he said, "I thought you wanted _me_…"_

_ When Arthur didn't even try to speak, had gone as still as stone, he said more forcefully, almost desperate, "Look at me—look at me, in the eyes. Tell me—is that what I was to you?" His voice was rising with each word, searing like a brand. "Did you come to me all those years ago because you thought I was a means to an end? A token to be collected? Did you even _love_ me—"_

_ He saw Arthur's hand moving through the air. He could have stopped it—he knew he could—because he was stronger than Arthur, he had always been stronger, but he let Arthur hit him, because maybe, just maybe, he had deserved it. _

_ As soon as it was done, Arthur stared at his fist, as if it had moved on its own, for a second imbued with some foreign will that had jerked the muscles forward. "I—" he started, but stopped, let his arm fall to his side. _

_ "Goodbye, Arthur," Alfred whispered. The words fell, full and solemn and terrible, like a death sentence, and he turned away from the desk, away from his father, and, as he walked away, out of the office and out of his childhood—because, _everything_ had changed—he thought he could feel Arthur's green eyes on his back, entreating and probing, trying to pull him back to find that boy again, that boy with the gleaming blond hair and the dancing blue eyes, that boy who waited up at night for his guardian to come back, who hung onto his mentor's hand and refused to let go._

_ That boy was gone. Both of them knew that, and the next time that Alfred saw Arthur, on the fields of Lexington, his father's eyes had gone cold and hard and blank, pitiless and cruel, although, he was sure, if he had stopped long enough to search, if he had cared more enough to _try_, he might have seen grief in Arthur's face._

* * *

"For Christ's sake, watch it!" someone shouted, and Alfred jerked awake at the same instant his horse bucked underneath him, throwing him with little grace and much humiliation onto the ground.

Alfred groaned, disoriented, still half-dazed from sleep—he could _swear_ that he had been conscious the whole time, however long _that_ was—and found himself staring at a man's face, which looked back down at him with a mixture of half-assembled annoyance and disgruntled concern.

"What—?" Alfred managed through the dull throbbing in his head and in his back, finding that coherency had temporarily left him. God, he hadn't been cast from a horse in ages—it might have even been decades back, when Arthur had burned Washington, D.C...

"Can you try _not_ to nap while riding on a public road?" the man said, his mouth pulled in a grimace, although he offered a lined, tanned hand to help pull Alfred up, which he gratefully accepted.

"I'm sorry." Alfred dusted himself off, trying to regain some of his pride, or at the very least, avoid embarrassing himself any further. "I didn't mean to."

"Right," the man scowled, but now more for show than actual irritation. He gestured toward his wagon, piled with bundles of wheat stacked around seven feet high that threatened to topple over at any second. "Do you see this? Hell, it's not like I can steer this thing out of your way—as if there were any room in the first place on this damn narrow path. I called out no less than _ten times_—"

"I'm really sorry," Alfred said, starting to fidget under the man's accusations, not sure if the man was belittling him or just trying to work himself out of a nervous fit induced by a near-collision. "Look, did I damage anything or…?"

"No, no, everything is fine." The man patted one of his horses. "Although, I sure hope you know where you're going, what with you drooping over in the saddle like that."

"Wait—if you don't mind, is there a town nearby, starting with a W?" God, he couldn't have missed a whole _town_, could he, by sleeping? Someone would have waken him up, right, if they saw a stranger, passed out on a horse, just meander through the main road? Damn, what if he had gotten completely turned around, and he was actually heading back home? He was such a _mess_.

"You mean, Westover?" The man jerked his head in what Alfred guessed was north. "Yeah—you going there?"

"Something like that."

"What's your business there?" The man eyed him, his horse, and his belongings in one quick sweep of his eyes, but, from his tilted head and slight frown curling at the edge of his dry lips, Alfred guessed that he had deduced nothing.

"What? Something wrong?" Alfred arched an eyebrow in a casual effort to appear calm, although his words came off more pointed than he would have liked.

The man shrugged, retreating back into a mask of passivity. "I'm just saying—I travel these roads a lot, go through Westover at least five times every month. There isn't much there—a few residential houses, maybe a shop or two. If you're looking for some high entertainment—especially since you're dressed so smartly—you ain't going to find it there."

"I just need supplies—they do have supplies, right?"

"Yeah, they have supplies. But…" the man trailed off, as if he had reached a barrier that he couldn't breach. "Never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing," the man said. He clambered onto his wagon. "I'm sure the shop's open. Pay attention from now on, yeah?"

"I will," Alfred said, climbing onto his horse, which huffed at the sudden addition of his weight.

"Well, good." The man gave him a quick nod and snapped his reins. With a creak and a groan, his wagon rolled forward with what seemed like a Herculean effort, the wheat bundles swaying unsteadily, rocking to and fro as if to a bizarre rhythm. Alfred watched as the wagon trundled its way down the road, until it seemed that the pines had swallowed it up, so he was again alone in the forest.

Slapping his cheeks in order to shake any lingering strands of lethargy from his mind, he gripped the reins of his horse and set a steady pace down the path, although, for some unexplainable reason, he could feel a pit of unease building in his stomach. Perhaps it was a symptom of dehydration. Or, more possibly, it was from that man's behavior toward Westover, that shade that seemed to pass over the man's eyes as he had talked about the shop there.

_Come on_, he chided to himself, _you're not going to let some farmer startle you, are you?_

He took a fast swig of water from his canteen, hoping that it would ease his nerves. But, the anxiety didn't go away as he approached closer to the town—no, it festered and grew in him, chewed and frayed his composure, until, by the time he actually saw the town in the distance coupled with a sign by the road, with tired and sloppy handwriting announcing that he had reached his destination, a sense of dread had lodged itself in Alfred's throat and refused to let go.

* * *

Westover wasn't even a town. In fact, it was best called a hamlet, Alfred thought, or at a stretch, a village. As he approached the center of the sparse collection of faded buildings, he began to despair at the possibility of resupplying here—not when he had seen a complete, outstanding total of five people, who glanced at him momentarily with barely-mustered interest, as if they were used to strangers wandering in and had no questions about where they had come from.

He had considered just galloping through the whole place—especially now that the nausea that had been steadily building in his gut had increased tenfold, despite the utter irrationality of it—when he saw a sign leaned casually against the wall of a small house. On the battered wood, it advertised in too-prim letters: STORE. He surveyed the supposed store, not seeing much—it certainly didn't look like it had anything worthwhile in it, with its white walls stained yellow with rain or age or both and its windows covered with heavy drapes that Alfred thought would block out any sunlight whatsoever. He was about to turn away, maybe ask around to see if there was another settlement nearby down the road, when he saw the corner of one of the curtains peel back to reveal the pale face of a girl, who nodded as if to say, yes, they were open for business, even if it seemed that they were closed to any visitors at all.

After tying his horse to a rusted railing outside of the store, he was about to grasp the doorknob when the door jerked open and the same girl, her hair pulled back in a quickly-assembled bun that only emphasized the weariness etched on her face, said, "Come on in." She held the door for him as he walked into the shop, and he found himself mildly shocked that there were shelves, actual _shelves_, with actual _goods_ lining the walls of the room he was in.

He wandered over to a portion of the room reserved for seed bags, or what looked like seed bags. For Christ's sake, it was so dark with the door closed that he could barely make out his hands in front of him, much less the items placed on the shelves. He was about to ask for some light, when the girl said, "I'm sorry. Mother doesn't want much light to be in here—she thinks that…that it'll hurt Tommy."

"Tommy?" Alfred brushed his hand on a canteen, tried not to shudder at what seemed to be a month's worth of dust that coated the leather.

"My brother," the girl said, not meeting Alfred's eyes. "He is—I mean, _was_—a soldier, in the war."

Alfred froze, his stomach roiling, his heart picking up speed. The fear that had built in him since his approach to Westover doubled, tripled, and overwhelmed. Swallowing hard, finding that his tongue had gone quite numb, he said, "What happened?"

"Ah—" The girl shook her head, and he thought he saw her trembling, clutching her arms for support. "It's—" She gave him a hopeless look. "It's not good."

"Mary!" a sharp voice called out from somewhere in the bowels of the dark house, and Alfred jumped, cursed as he knocked over a glass that shattered on the floor, a sound so loud that it might as well have been…have been—cannon fire. "Mary, who are you talking to?"

Mary glanced at what Alfred could make out was a staircase tucked away in the corner of the room. "My mother," she said. Then, to the voice, "It's a customer."

There was heavy stomping, and a stout figure appeared at the end of the stairs, and even though Alfred couldn't see much, he thought he could feel a pair of eyes on him, latching into his skin like burrs.

"Customer," the woman repeated. The woman turned to Mary in a violent, almost vicious move. "I thought I told you—no customers. Not until Tommy gets better—you know he doesn't like the noise. In fact, you've gone up and disturbed him, and he's riled up now—"

"Sorry, ma'am," Alfred said, wanting nothing more than to disappear, or at least get out of the dank room that had taken on, what Alfred imagined, the smell of decay, rot, and death. "I'll go—now."

"No, stay, please," Mary said. She gestured at him. "Mother, we need the money, and I could tell that he was going to buy—weren't you?"

Alfred nodded, although he could feel someone move towards him, and then there was suddenly a cold pressure at his wrist. He looked over to see that Mary's mother had clamped her hand on his arm, her green eyes, almost accusatory in nature, meeting his.

"Yes. You were going to _buy_." She drew out the word, and Alfred detected a hint of hysteria in her voice. "You're one of those rich boys, aren't you? Hiding away, behind your money, while people who aren't as well off do the dirty work? Why aren't you out there fighting, with the rest of the boys? What kind of man are you to—"

"Mother!" Mary made a move to pry her mother's arm hand from Alfred's sleeve, although her efforts were shaken off with an intensity that belied her mother's frail frame. "He just wants supplies—it's not his fault, what happened to Tommy."

"Does it make you feel better to know that someone else is dying in your place? Isn't this your country just as much as it is mine, so why is _my_ son suffering for _you_? Why should he be lying in bed—like _that_—while you're here, standing on your own two feet…?" Mary's mother began to sob and released her grip to bury her face in her hands. "It's not fair," she managed between gasps. "It's not _fair_."

_No, no, it's not_, Alfred though, and there was this all-encompassing shame that seared through him, and the familiar prick of tears in his eyes. He was the national personification—he should be out there with his country, out there fighting for the cause, but he couldn't, could he? Not after what had happened during the War of 1812, when—well, he had been forbidden from fighting ever again after that. Yet, even though authority had never stopped him before, for this war, this damn Civil War, enlisting had never been on the forefront of his mind—instead, escaping, the need to get out, to retreat into some place untouched by the conflict that ravaged his land had been dominant—did that make him a coward?

He hadn't thought about it in a while, perhaps in some kind of self-defense, but just how _many_ people were dead, how many gone, buried in hastily-dug graves or hidden in the shrubs or nooks of the battlefields, lost and rotting? And how many people were injured beyond repair, marred and torn apart by that bloody specter of war? There—_there_, that explained it, the increasing horror as he had approached Westover—because, here, in this small place, there was one of his people in anguish, in agony—that boy, Tommy, whose call for help was so great that Alfred had felt it curdling in his blood.

_The people are yours_—Arthur had said that to him once. It had seemed a simple fact then, some kind of commonplace knowledge that every Personification should know at heart, but it wasn't until Alfred had grown older until he understood that those four words hid so much more meaning. The people, they were his lifeblood, and sometimes their shrieks were too much to block out…He could handle battles—he could handle his men dying around him, because they were gone quick in the spatter of gun and cannon fire, and their screams were soon cut short, but he couldn't handle the prolonged and drawn-out suffering of his country—military hospitals, especially, where his citizens, close to dying but denied that reprieve, howled.

He had gone to a military hospital exactly one time in his life, once, during the Revolution. He had had to be carried out, burdened by the pain of the soldiers around him that seemed to consume him, to become a part of him, to become _his_. Not again, he had sworn—no, not again.

But, perhaps because he had been isolated from _that_ kind of experience for so long, this single case had drawn him in…Upstairs…upstairs, the poor boy lay…

"Mother?" a thin voice croaked from upstairs, and Mary's mother jerked at the sound, gave Alfred one condemning glare, then rushed up to tend to her son.

"I'm sorry," Mary said, after she was certain that her mother was out of earshot. "It's just that things have been so hard for her, after—after Tommy came back. And, with my father still out there…" She sighed heavily, and she seemed to droop. "Well—the war didn't seem real until it was right in front of us."

"I know," Alfred said, feeling like those words were empty, but not knowing what else to say.

She stared at the floor, and then whispered, faintly, "Who decides this, anyway? This war? We could have—" She stopped and then continued, so softly that Alfred had to strain to catch what she spoke, "We could have just left the Confederates alone."

"You don't mean that," Alfred said, although, God, he'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't thought the exact same thing before.

"I don't know. I just—I just wish that…Well, I don't know what we're fighting for."

Before Alfred could reply, try to say some comforting words, or try to explain the war, justify all the grief she and her mother had felt and were feeling, her mother appeared again, at the edge of the staircase, and she said coldly, "Sir, if you don't mind a few minutes of your time? My son—he would like to see you."

He nodded, not wanting to go but feeling that he would fail himself otherwise, and walked away from the safety of the dark shop to go upstairs into a small, windowless room that was marked only by a single cot, in which—in which, some _thing_, because that wretched creature couldn't be human, lay, moaning quietly to itself with each breath.

The—the _person_ was wrapped in bandages stained with both old and fresh blood. The cloth seemed to loop everywhere, across his chest, and arms, and leg—because he only had one leg, with just a stump that was a thigh to serve as the other one—and face, where it was the worst, because there was only three-quarters of a face, the lower edge of the jaw missing, in its place, a festering hole of infection that seemed to ooze with pus with every shuddering breath the boy took. Through the bandages, Alfred could see the boy's pale skin, so white that he could make out the stark blue of veins snaking underneath, weakly pumping blood in an attempt to support a life that was far from saving.

Alfred almost fell to his knees right then, because a wave of the most terrible, raw _feelings_ struck him with full force, and he had to gasp at the agony that pierced his bones, the sheer terror that, now, the boy and he shared.

The boy turned his head—Alfred restrained the urge to vomit at the sight of his ruined face—and said, through torn lips, "Mother, can you…can you leave us alone?"

The woman nodded and gave Alfred a stare that seemed to shift between anger, contempt, and mourning in the span of a few seconds, before she headed out of the room, gently clicking the door shut behind her.

Alfred kneeled at the bed's side, because that was what felt appropriate, and the boy gazed at him with glazed-over blue eyes that hid the fear that he must be feeling—fear that Alfred knew battered at the boy's mind, because he felt that fear right now, and it must have been showing on his face, because the boy—Tommy—whispered, "You…you have it too…don't you?"

"Have—have what?"

"This…" The boy roughly moved his arm and tapped his chest. "You're scared…like me…"

"Yes," Alfred said, the word dropping from his mouth like a stone.

"I was a good…man…sir," Tommy said, his eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "I was kind…to my family…to my friends…to strangers…so…why…why was it _me_?"

"I don't know," Alfred said thickly, his throat constricting.

"Maybe…maybe it was God, sir."

"Maybe it was," Alfred agreed, because Tommy was dying, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.

"My father is still…he's still…out there." Tommy sighed, a weak rustling of his lungs. "I don't want him…like this." Then, quieter, almost as if he were confessing, "I wish he were _here_."

Tommy closed his eyes, and the room grew so still that Alfred was afraid that the boy had died right then and there, when Tommy suddenly said, his voice stronger than before, "Hold my hand."

When Alfred didn't move, Tommy said, more forcefully, with a wet gush of breath following his words, "_Hold my hand_."

He didn't want to. He didn't want to increase the contact between them, because he didn't know what would happen, how he would react, but his limbs moved without his thinking, and his fingers closed around the bandages—and the room was gone because—

* * *

_It was dark. It was dark and cold—something was biting him, chewing and raving at his leg and—God! His face, his face was on fire, and something heavy was trampling his chest, so that he couldn't breathe—he couldn't breathe—no!_

_ His eyes snapped open, saw through a thick veil of red—blood, his blood, he thought dully—looked up and met eyes that belonged to a face obscured half by a mask, eyes that were stiff and cold and dark. There was a sound in the distance—screaming, someone was screaming—it was his own screams—God! Someone was stabbing at his face, digging into the flesh and pulling out his muscles one by one-and his leg! Someone was crushing it, snapping it into two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two pieces of bone that couldn't ever be put back together again._

_ He swiveled his head around, met another set of eyes that had the same empty expression as the first, except the eyes were attached to a body, which had an arm, which held a saw—saw…The realization hit him and he lurched upwards in a burst of adrenaline that would get him nowhere—no! No! God! They were going to cut his leg off! They were going to chop off one of him limbs, let the blood spurt all over and let him bleed out like some kind of animal on the butcher's block! No—please, no!_

_ Despite his struggles, a cold hand stuffed a rag in his mouth that tasted like copper, so bitter and salty that it made him gag—or was that just from the blood pooling at the back of his throat? More cold hands pressed him back down on the table and held him still as the saw descended down…down…down…in a slow, agonizingly slow motion and then-!_

_ God! Please, make it stop, stop, _stop!_ Let me die! Let me die than suffer like this! It was too much—the pain was too great—please, please…God, _please_…_

_ As he shrieked louder, because he though he could hear the metal dig through his skin, crunch through his bones, again and again and again because the tendons wouldn't snap, the leg wouldn't come off, they couldn't get it right, he felt a pull downwards, a sucking in the middle of his chest, and he felt all his strength ebb away, and it was dark again—but the pain did not stop._

_ Please, please take me away now…please. I don't want this anymore—I don't want to live anymore…!_

* * *

Alfred felt someone drag him away from the bed, thin arms holding him still, and he writhed in the person's grasp, turned and found Mary behind him, pinning himself to her—and he noticed that he was shouting and thrashing and sobbing incoherent words, and he struggled against her—she was so strong for so little of a girl—and he swiveled his head around to find Mary's mother at Tommy's side, her face buried in his chest, not caring that blood was getting on her dress—the blood, it was everywhere—and there, there, Tommy, he, with some kind of twisted parody of a smile on his ruined mouth—his eyes blank…and Alfred noticed that the agony and the terror were gone now, because…because the boy's heart had stopped, and there was nothing left to feel but the emptiness that came with death.

"Ah—" Alfred gasped, clawed his way through Mary's arms, stumbled through the doorway and tried to go down the stairs—away, far away, from that corpse on the bed—but nothing would work, because he had gone limp, all of his muscles slack, and he tripped and crashed his way down to the bottom of the staircase, and there was a burning in his arm and a burning in his head, and he closed his eyes, and wished that it would end.

And it did.

* * *

Author's Note:

Well, there it is. Chapter Six. It actually turned out to be a lot darker than I first planned-Tommy and his family initially weren't going to make an appearance-but I wanted to explore the consequences of war on the people of a nation, and what that would do to Alfred.

There are a few things I'd like to clear up in the flashback of Arthur and Alfred's fight (this is the part where I try to explain historical events, so bear with me):

First, about Jumonville. The Jumonville incident was one of the catalysts of the French and Indian War. Basically, Washington and his troops attacked a French camp, and through a series of events, the French camp's commanding officer, Joseph Coulon de Villiers de Jumonville, was killed. That, of course, did not go over well with the French.

Second, Alfred mentions how Arthur only saw him as a source for raw materials-that is, in the beginning. This is from the British belief at the time when they were first colonizing of mercantilism. Mercantilism is based on the idea that a country's success is measured by how much gold and silver it has, so a country had to export more than it imported. As for a nation's colonies, they served as both a market for finished products from the nation and also a supplier of raw materials for the nation.

All right-enough history for now. If you have any questions, please send me a PM (I won't mind). As always, if you liked the story and would like to see more, please leave a review! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven:**

_ "Do you want to talk about it?"_

_ Alfred stirred after hearing that low, familiar voice, and looked up to find General Washington standing at the entrance to his tent. Even though the general was drenched from the sudden downpour, his hair dripping and his uniform sodden from the rain, he wore an assertive, confident—maybe even noble—air about him. Qualities that Alfred on any other day would have admired, but today only made him feel more inadequate._

_ "You've been sitting here for a while," Washington said. "I was wondering if you would like some company?"_

_ "Sir—I—" Alfred shook his head, the words stuck in his throat, caught on his tongue. What could he say, after all? He had made _such_ a damn fool of himself today at the hospital! He couldn't decide if it were worse that he had broken down in a fit of hysteria as soon as he had walked in or that he had had to be carried out on a pallet after he had passed out. And, to top the whole debacle off, his—his _breakdown _had happened in front of the very soldiers he had come to inspire. God—he couldn't remember the last time he had been so ashamed of himself!_

_ "It's all right," Washington said, although Alfred couldn't tell if he meant what had happened earlier or the fact that Alfred couldn't speak properly at the moment. He gestured at the cot. "Now, do you mind if I take a seat so that we can discuss this—properly?"_

_ Alfred shifted over to give the general room but didn't meet his eyes. He didn't want to see the pity, sympathy, or whatever reassuring emotion there might be lingering on Washington's face. He had seemed so weak—incompetent, even—this afternoon, and the last thing he needed was someone to try to _baby_ him, out of all things._

_ "I would need you to look at me, if we were to talk," Washington murmured, not yet a command, but more than a suggestion._

_ Alfred slowly turned to face the general, who gave him a soft smile in return. On anyone else, Alfred would have taken that gesture for condescension. But, on Washington, it was gentle and kind—almost fatherly in the warmth it held._

_ "I won't try to say that I understand what you're going through, Alfred," Washington said, simply, bluntly, and Alfred was glad for the honesty. "That would be a lie," he continued, and, with his lips quirking upwards in a wry smile, "and, well, I have a reputation for always speaking the truth. But, I would like to _know_ what you experienced, if you feel comfortable in telling me."_

_ A weak laugh, thin and flat, burst through Alfred's lips before he could stop it. "I don't think I can describe it to you, sir."_

_ "Please, try." Washington placed a firm hand on Alfred's shoulder, and almost instinctively, Alfred leaned in towards his grip, taking comfort on how sturdy it felt, how—safe, almost. Its strength reminded him of Arthur, even though there was no use in thinking about that now._

_ Alfred let out a shaky breath. "It's just—it was so awful. I could feel_ everything_—their screams, their pain, their fear—all of it, right in my blood." He buried his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his skull in an attempt to keep the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes at bay. "It was hell, sir."_

_ "We all have to go through hell at some point," Washington said, but—something wasn't right. His voice…it was higher, smoother…and—unmistakably British._

_ Alfred jerked away from Washington's grasp, shocked to find Arthur, and not his beloved general, staring back at him._

_ "What?" he managed, making a move to get up, but Arthur caught his arm and pulled him back down on the cot again, the whole time his dark green eyes burning with some kind of dire urgency._

_ Arthur's hand moved to cup both sides of Alfred's face, to hold his head so that he couldn't look away, but when his mouth opened to form words, sentences, an _explanation_ of what the hell was going on, no sound came out._

_ "What are you doing?" Alfred croaked, not sure if he should be struggling to get away from his father—no, Arthur was no longer his father—who was clutching at him with an almost desperate iron-grip, or if he should be leaning in closer to try to catch what Arthur was saying with rapidity—and obviously no knowledge that he was being unheard._

_ The world seemed to fall away around the two of them—the tent, the ground, the cot—everything, until it was only he and Arthur in complete darkness. Alfred tried to clutch at Arthur's shoulders, either in fright of how absolutely none of this made any kind of logical sense or in frustration at how Arthur was completely oblivious to the apparent irrationality of the moment—and, for God's sake, what the hell was Arthur _saying_—but found that his arms, his fingers, his whole body was paralyzed._

_ "Arthur, stop!" Alfred said—or thought that he had said, because his mouth didn't move, or if it had, nothing had come out…and he could only watch, helpless as fingers of black crawled up onto Arthur's body, lapped with a hungry insistency at his clothes and skin, wrapping around every inch of him until only a pair of green eyes were left uncovered—and then, those too, were gone._

* * *

Alfred lurched upwards from the bed, his hand making a blind grasp for Arthur—because, God, he didn't want to be alone in that hopeless despair of the dark—only to find that the arm he was clutching in his fingers belonged to Mary, who stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. For a few moments that seemed to drag on painfully into infinity, they just stared at each other, blue locked with blue, neither one of them making a move, neither one of them seeking to justify themselves.

Finally, after far too long of a silence, Alfred released her sleeve. "I'm sorry," he said, the words hollow in the still air. "I—I had a nightmare."

"It's okay," she said, her voice steady, although Alfred could see that she was still trembling a little, her face in the dim lamplight pale. He couldn't blame her, either—the expression on his face just as he had woken up probably had looked terrifying.

He leaned back, suddenly exhausted, a headache beginning to beat at his temples with a vicious ferocity that matched the thumping of his heart. God—he hadn't had such a truly chilling dream in well over two years, never mind one that had felt so viscerally real. Although, Alfred thought, a bitter smile beginning to form at the corners of his mouth, he wasn't entirely sure if he'd rather have the dream again or he'd rather deal with the situation currently at hand—namely the fact that not only had he made a complete spectacle of himself, but—surely—Mary and her mother now knew that something was _odd_ about him, _wrong_ even. Especially given the way that Mary was eyeing him now, as if she were peering at some exotic animal poised between slumber and frightful wakefulness.

In hindsight, he should have prepared for something like this, but it wasn't like he had _expected_ to reveal himself so blatantly in front of humans who didn't know his secret, or, for that matter, the existence of Personifications at all. He had always been more or less surrounded by people who knew about his true nature, and, even in times when he wasn't, he had always been able to keep a firm handle on himself in public, even during times of war.

But, obviously, that confidence in being able to always remain—not stoic, but detached—from the emotions of his country was misplaced. Or he had been ridiculously and hopelessly blindsided.

Either way, he supposed that it was a relief that Mary and her mother hadn't immediately condemned him as a demon of some sort and tried to exorcise him or burn him at the stake. Arthur had described to him both processes in unnecessarily intricate detail when Alfred had been little in an attempt to terrify him into not ever exposing himself, and, frankly, those were two experiences that Alfred had no intention of undergoing.

In fact, from the looks of it, Mary and her mother had actually placed him in a bedroom, probably in an attempt to tend to his injuries—although that posed another significant problem of explaining why his broken arm had fully healed in the span of at most an hour.

_Damn_.

"You fell down the stairs," Mary said, snapping Alfred out of his thoughts.

"I…I guess I did," Alfred said, not sure what else to say. After all, he couldn't just _tell_ her what he was. She'd probably think that he was a lunatic, which, in the light of recent events, was a reasonable assumption.

"I was just changing your bandages." She gestured at the roll of white fabric on the bedside table, looking anywhere but at his face. "But—" She broke off and gave a weak shrug.

"I know," Alfred murmured. Then, quietly, feeling that he was treading on ice, "Thank you."

"You're…welcome." Then, after a pause, she said, fiddling with the sleeves of her dress, "You were out for a day. You…you hit your head."

"Yeah. I did."

"The stairs cut you up pretty good."

"I guess so."

In such a quick motion that Alfred instinctively jerked away, Mary leaned forward so that they were eye-to-eye, her hands gripping the bed sheets so hard that her knuckles turned white.

"Just what _are_ you?" she whispered, and Alfred saw some kind of fire dance in her eyes, or maybe it was just a spark, but it was more emotion than she had displayed to him since they had met. It was almost as if she were holding onto something precious that she couldn't bear to let go.

"I—" Alfred began, but stopped, finding that his mouth was suddenly dry, as if it were filled with cotton and dust, and he couldn't will his tongue to move, to form syllables, an explanation or a lie, so he settled for just looking back at her, helpless under her probing gaze.

"Are you an angel?"

"What?" Alfred blinked. Well, he hadn't expected _that_, out of all the theories he had thought that she might come up with.

"Well, are you?" she pressed.

"I—no. No." He shook his head. "No, I'm not an—an angel."

"But, you're different," she said, not as a question, but as a simple fact.

Alfred nodded, not trusting himself to speak and wanting nothing more than to leave. Under that girl's scrutiny, as if she were picking him apart piece by piece, poking and prodding with a relentless insistency on digging out the most raw, the most vulnerable, the most _truthful_ part of him and exposing it for everyone to see...she might as well have had him at gunpoint.

"So, what are you?" she said, her voice taking on a hard edge—but, there was a hint of fragility in it, buried but still indisputably there.

"I—" He swallowed and gave a limp shrug. "Look, I can't tell you—"

"No. Stop," she snapped, throwing the words out with an almost frightening viciousness. Then, taking a deep breath, she said, softer but with no less conviction, "I'm tired of people saying that to me. When my father went to the war, and I asked why he was leaving, he turned away and said that he couldn't tell me. And—" Her voice cracked, and she shook her head, as if to brush off the momentary lapse in her composure. "When my brother came back, already half—half-dead, and I asked my mother why this had happened…do you know what she said?"

Alfred waited for her to continue, knowing that the question wasn't his to answer.

"She said that I didn't need to hear," she finished. Mary looked at him with damp eyes, the luster from before gone, replaced by a defeated acceptance. "I'm tired of people avoiding 'why.' Do you understand? So—please. _Please_, tell me the truth, because I can't—I can't take _this_ anymore."

"All right," Alfred said, shocked by how quickly the answer came, but feeling strangely light, as if some burden had passed from him. "All right—I'll tell you."

Because, maybe, just maybe, he could understand the position she was in. He remembered, long ago, how Arthur had always dodged his questions of where he went when he wasn't here at the house, why he disappeared for days, weeks, months on end without even the slightest hint of where he had gone. There were always excuses, of course, faint explanations that concealed more than they revealed, and the feeling that Alfred remembered the most from those times was the aching sense that he was seeing the world through a dense film of half-truths, of sideways glances, of quick cover-ups, as if the reality he saw was a carefully constructed façade.

He had eventually found out, of course, what Arthur did when he was away. Conquering. Expanding. Because he wasn't Arthur's only son, it seemed. And his father's hands, his father's strong, firm hands that seemed able to chase away all of Alfred's fears with one touch—how many other Personifications had they grasped for the sake of building his empire? Those damn letters in the drawer that Arthur had always kept locked shut…they had only completed the picture of Arthur's real intentions.

Of course, Alfred knew better now. Arthur had loved him—had grown to love him. But, still, he couldn't help but think that the lies had made it worse somehow, that if Arthur had just been honest with him, things would have turned out for the better.

Maybe. Maybe not. But, nevertheless, Alfred had lived through the power of a lie. And, God, he wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"Do you know what a nation is?" Alfred asked.

"A—nation?" Mary rolled the word on her tongue, as if testing its weight. "It's…well, we're a nation, aren't we? The Union?"

_No, we aren't_, Alfred thought. _The Union is only half of a nation, incomplete._ But, instead, he replied, "Yeah, we are. A nation—like the Union, like England, like France. At least, that's what most people think a nation is—but…that's not all there is to it."

"What do you mean?"

"If I told you that there were people in this world that were…that were nations too—would you believe me?"

"People? You mean, they…?" she trailed off, doubt shading her eyes.

"Yes. There are people out there who _are_ nations, who personify them, whose blood runs with the emotions of their citizens. These people change with their country, growing up, growing old—whatever happens, they embody the essence of that place."

Mary bit her lip. "And—you're one of those…people?"

"I am."

"You're…_America_?"

Alfred gave a soft, but somehow brittle, laugh. "I was. But now…I'm just the Union." The words were sour in his mouth. Bitter, as if he were admitting some kind of defeat.

"The Union," she repeated. "So—there's…there's a Confederacy too?"

"Yeah," Alfred said, and that familiar rage was starting to stir inside of him again, rage of how Johnny had taken half of him away, stolen half of his identity, half of his soul, although in the midst of that anger, there was a distinctive hurt that had not yet abated, of how he had been betrayed—how the South had betrayed him.

"Does he look like you?" she said abruptly.

"What?" Alfred stumbled. "He—Johnny—well, I…I guess."

They could be twins, he supposed. Same golden hair. Same blue eyes. Johnny had glasses—that was one physical difference. But, there was something about the way Johnny held himself that marked him as a completely separate man. The cold steel that flashed in his eyes as he surveyed the area around him, or the practiced, smooth gestures of his hands as he spoke, or the utter discipline that he seemed to exude—it made Johnny look proud, polished, and also frightfully young. As if the assertion he wore about him was only a mask, hiding a beating innocence that thrummed under the surface.

He looked hopeful, Alfred realized with a start. Under that aristocratic show, Johnny was still a boy…

"Are you two fighting?" Mary murmured.

"I—we—yes," Alfred said, cursing at how unsure he sounded, because for Christ's sake, _yes_, they were fighting, they were in a damn _civil war_. His people and Johnny's people were bleeding in the fields and filling in too many graves—but…but…He didn't want to think of it that way…no…

Because, he couldn't deny that some small part of him didn't want to fight. Some small part of him just wanted to leave Johnny alone. Let him carry on in peace and keep that aloof, but bright look in his eyes that wouldn't be tarnished by the grief of bearing a conflict of such magnitude. It wouldn't be the best for their nations, not by a long shot—President Lincoln had given him a list of reasons of why America had to be restored again, not that Alfred didn't realize the urgency already. Yet—yet, why did it send a twist of revulsion in his stomach when he thought about fighting his other half…of…of killing his other half?

Alfred felt a pressure at his shoulder, and he looked to find that Mary had placed her hand there in comfort.

"I'm sorry," she said. "That—that must be hard for you."

"I'll be all right." Alfred gave a wan smile. "I'm tough."

"I bet you are," she whispered. Then, after a pause, she said, "How much pain was my brother in?"

_Lie_, a tiny voice in his head hissed.

Alfred pushed it away. She would know that he was hiding the truth—she had _seen_ him screaming at Tommy's bedside, writhing and thrashing about. He couldn't pass off that experience as nothing—nor could he deny the agony that had seared through Tommy's body, pounding in sync with his fading heartbeat and eating away at his flesh and consciousness with the rapacity of a starving animal.

"It was bad," he finally said. "I'm—I'm sorry that he…he…" He couldn't finish.

"I guess—I guess it's for the best. He's not suffering anymore, at least." Mary smeared away a tear from the corner of her eye. In a shaky voice, she said, "We buried him a while ago. In the backyard."

Then, she clutched his arm with enough strength that Alfred had to wince. "You can feel the nation, is that true? Because of what you are?"

Before he had the chance to reply, she said, rapidly, her fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt, "Can you—can you feel my father? Can you check if he's all right?"

Gently, he pried her hand away. "I'm sorry. It—it doesn't work that way. I have to be near the person to pick up on how they are—and, even then, only when their emotions are—are overwhelming."

She seemed to visibly sag before him, fold in on herself, and Alfred couldn't help but notice how small she looked right then. "Oh…I—I see," she gasped, more to herself than anyone else.

Then, suddenly, she began to cry. Through her sobs that seemed to heave through her with a kind of desperate vehemence, she leaned into Alfred, her hands reaching up to hold his back, his shirt bunching in her grip. He felt his arms move, almost by reflex, to hug her in return, to press her against him so that she wouldn't break into a thousand, irreparable pieces, and they stayed like that for a while, Alfred rubbing her arm with his thumb and whispering nothing of particular into her ear in what he hoped were soothing gestures—and before he knew it, she had fallen limp, asleep, with her face buried in his chest.

With a kind of tenderness that he hadn't thought he had been capable of, he let her go and slid off the bed. Then, careful not to disturb her, he lifted her onto the mattress and covered her as best as he could with the blankets, and he thought that she looked quite beautiful in the lamplight, sweet and pure, and he could understand now why Arthur had often sat beside him as he had slept when he was little, his hand wrapped in Alfred's hair, his fingers making small circles on Alfred's forehead.

It was time to go. Alfred knew this. He had spent long enough with this family, intruded already too much upon their lives.

But, before he turned the doorknob, he looked back at the girl in the bed, the way she was curled in on herself like a child, and a pang hit him with a brutal force, driving a wedge into his chest that made it tighten—because, God, what had war done to her, to her mother, to her family!

An image was unfolding in his mind before he could stop it. Mary, her soft curls bouncing as she laughed at a dinner table. Tommy at her side, a playful grin on his face, a hint of protectiveness curving on his lips. Their mother, placing a dish of mashed potatoes in front of them, trying to act stern but failing miserably. And—and the father, with the same brooding eyes as his son and the same graceful mouth as his daughter, standing upwards to give his wife a quick, but warm kiss…

That family was gone. The father absent. The brother dead. The mother broken. The daughter lost.

Alfred opened the door. He and Johnny, the Union and the Confederacy—they were in too deep. They couldn't back out now. It was too late, the time for reparations, for apologies, had long passed, and, in the present, they had to keep fighting. Had to keep fighting, because all of that pain, all of that agony, all of that loss and suffering and death…

It couldn't just mean nothing.

* * *

Author's Note:

So there it is. Chapter Seven. I have to admit, this chapter was really hard for me to write-probably because I had stuck Alfred in an almost impossible situation in Chapter Six-so I apologize if this chapter isn't up to par. But, do you know what I noticed? There are a lot of original characters in this story. Out of curiosity, do you have a favorite? In any case, if you liked what you have read and would like to see more, please review! :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight:**

Alfred was not what anyone would call a drinking man. Although most of his nation firmly held to the belief that a beer in the morning and a beer at night would chase away all ills, he rarely touched alcohol, and even when occasion demanded it, he only drank as little as he could without passing for impolite. In fact, Alfred only remembered one occasion when he had actually become drunk—Arthur had challenged him to a shot contest in celebration of the end of the French and Indian War, and from what Alfred could remember, the incident had ended up with Alfred passed out at the table after divulging possibly every single humiliating personal secret he had kept, and Arthur carrying him in his arms upstairs to bed. After that day, Alfred had decided that it would be far more prudent—and far less embarrassing—for him to not indulge in liquor, even if it meant enduring occasional lifted eyebrows and curious glances.

But, somehow, here he was, at a decidedly seedy tavern that also served as a boarding house—and he was drunk. Alfred wasn't sure how much he had had to drink of what the bartender claimed was the town's pride and joy, a local concoction distilled from "the woods"—as the bartender had said with a lazy wink—but he was positive that he had exceeded five and was under eight glasses. In any case, the bartender didn't seem to mind, refilling Alfred's glass with great gusto despite Alfred's increasingly limp protestations, and Alfred would even go so far to say that the bartender was enjoying himself at seeing a stranger become hopelessly and utterly inebriated.

Or maybe the bartender was smiling because the atmosphere in the bar just begged for it. A large group of Union soldiers, dressed in full regalia, had occupied most of the room, and were, with great enthusiasm and raucous cries, celebrating what appeared to be someone's birthday, although it might as well have been the turn of the century from the way they were screaming and whooping.

"They came in to play cards," the bartender had whispered conspiratorially when Alfred had first taken a seat. "Said they didn't want a rough night." The bartender had laughed. "They're going to be in for a rude awakening in the morning—although, a few of them might wake up with more…_pleasant_ company." He had nudged Alfred's side with his elbow, nodding toward the dancers who, in dresses that showed off a considerable amount of cleavage, weaved and twirled among the men.

At first, Alfred had contemplated leaving. He had hoped for some peace and quiet after a hard day of traveling—to nowhere, Alfred had thought sourly—and the sight of these soldiers, undoubtedly still in training or they wouldn't be acting like they were, only served as a bitter reminder of the war.

How many of them knew what they were getting into? Probably for a great many of them, war was nothing but a faint romantic notion in their mind, some kind of cheerful game that would prove their manhood and polish their pride. Oh, how they would learn how wrong they were too soon, that the rush and exhilaration they imagined would be quickly replaced with terror and pain, and they were more than likely to end up like Tommy had, a living corpse wasting away on a bed, than some kind of hero to be regaled for ages.

It was unbearable.

But, Alfred needed rest. It was late at night, his horse was close to collapsing from exhaustion, and he had no intention to spend another night in the woods—not after he had woken up with a poisonous snake in his lap and a spread of poison ivy dangerously close to his face. Finding another town wasn't even an option—this place was the closest thing toward organized habitation in a thirty-mile radius, so it was either here, or nothing.

Alfred had only meant to get a quick drink, a light buzz in order to help him sleep at night in the rooms above the bar. That plan had rapidly evolved into three drinks to help cope with his current dismal situation, which had turned into more than five, because—well, what better way to forget about the whole damn Civil War than to get recklessly drunk? And, hell, Alfred would be kidding himself if he said that the feelings of the soldiers around him, their frenetic excitement and unbounded joy, didn't pulse inside of him and drive him to throw caution to the wind and say screw it all.

"Hey there," a voice murmured in his ear, and Alfred turned unsteadily to the source, his stomach churning at the sudden motion. He found himself face-to-face with a woman—one of the dancers from the look of her, and…she was _something_ to look at.

Nicely curved in all the right places, her dress hugging her hips and chest with an uncanny grace, she was more than attractive—although, he supposed what made her outright alluring were those eyes of hers. Deep green eyes that smoldered under heavy, shadowed lids. Eyes that made him want to lean forward so that gaze of hers could swallow him entirely, consume him so that there was nothing left.

Or maybe that was the alcohol talking—he couldn't tell, at any rate.

"Hello," he managed, feeling light-headed.

She gave him a slow, easy grin, her stark red lips curving up in an undeniably sensuous gesture, almost as if she had read his thoughts. "I'm taking you aren't one of them?" She tilted her head toward the back, where the soldiers were clapping and cheering on a trio of dancers who were spinning on the card table.

"No—not one of them," he said. God, she was so pretty.

"What are you then?" She was tracing patterns on his shoulder now, her light hands running up and down his shirt. "You don't seem like the casual traveler."

"Really?" He laughed weakly, finding that he had gone embarrassingly breathless. Christ, it _had_ been a long time since he had been with a woman—or anyone, at that rate—but that was no excuse to act like a hormonal adolescent. "How can you tell?"

"Your clothes, for one." She stroked his collar, and he suppressed the urge to shiver. "They're a bit too polished for this place."

"I—I like to dress nice," he stuttered, and fumbled for his glass, which was now filled to the brim again, although he could have sworn it was half-empty the last time he checked. He took a quick swig, hoping that the bitterness would ground him more firmly to reality.

It didn't work.

"I'm sure you do," she said. In one smooth motion, she slid onto the stool next to his and leaned forward, so close that her breath tickled his cheek. "Do you know what else makes you different?"

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"It's the way you looked at those boys over there," she whispered, her lips almost touching his skin. "It's almost as if you…knew something?" In a quick motion, she jerked backwards, and Alfred wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved at the distance between them.

"Do you want to know what I think?" she said, her tongue absentmindedly running over the corner of her lip.

"I—sure," Alfred said. His face felt like it was on fire. God, he hadn't been like this since the Revolution, when Francis had tried to—well. Washington had explained later, not unkindly, what _that_ had been about, but it still hadn't eased the embarrassment.

"I think you know about the war," she said, a glint in her eye.

"We all know about the war," he replied, feeling as if he were being backed into a corner.

"Yes, yes." She waved her hand impatiently. "But, you _know_ something about it. I think—I think that you must be an insider on the whole thing, right?"

"I—but—what?" He stumbled over the words. The sudden turn in the atmosphere of the conversation was jarring.

"Like—" She pressed herself close to him, her fingers lightly playing with the first button of his shirt. "Like…you work in the government, maybe?"

"Well—" Alfred began, but she cut him off.

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. It's not my business…really." She gave him a knowing glance, indicating that she thought otherwise. "We get a lot of people around here. Mostly soldiers, because the training camp is so close by, but occasionally there are people like you too." She shrugged, and Alfred couldn't help but notice the way her breasts moved. "But, like I said. It's not my business. We're not about…_business_ here." She chuckled.

"I think…I think I need to get some fresh air," Alfred said, and then, before she could say anything, he pushed himself off the stool and stumbled to the door.

As soon as he was outside, the unpleasant feeling that had been building in his stomach since the beginning of the conversation with the dancer hit full force, and he rushed to the alley beside the tavern and vomited. Gasping for air, the sour sting of bile clutching at his tonsils and threatening to make him throw up again, he braced his hands against the wall and tried to sort out what had exactly happened.

He had been approached by the dancer. She had tried to seduce him—and, for the most part, had succeeded. Somehow, she had noticed that he was different, more linked to the Civil War than the average traveler. There wasn't anything unusual there. He had been more or less ogling the party in the back before he had gotten horrendously drunk, and, he could see how she could have picked up on the difference. Besides, if what she said was true, that many federal workers and officials passed by this tavern—for the ladies, no doubt—sure, she could make the jump that he was also one of those people working for the government looking for a bit of pleasure to pass the time.

But, there had been something about the way she had looked at him. Deeper into that sultry gaze, he had seen some kind of self-satisfaction, some kind of clever smugness. It was almost as if she had been _mocking_ him, although it wasn't mockery of his embarrassment, but rather the mockery that came with swindling someone.

He had seen that look somewhere before, although he couldn't exactly place it, especially through the throbbing in his skull. But it meant trouble. That much he was sure of.

Before he could puzzle anything out further, a loud voice from the other end of the alley startled him out of his thoughts. Almost by instinct, he pressed himself closer to the wall and crouched down behind a couple of barrels, although he didn't know why he was being so furtive.

"I told you—I can't do this anymore," the voice said. A woman's voice. And—she was sobbing.

"You can't quit," a lower voice—a man, this time—said, and Alfred felt a chill creep up his spine. That voice—it sounded familiar. That drawl…where had he heard it before? "You know the rules. Once you get in, you can't get out."

"But—this isn't right." She had started crying again. "Every night, I think about what I'm doing to those poor boys, and I just…I _can't_."

"What you're doing is helping _our_ boys," the man said. "Do you understand?"

"But—God, it's not fair. It's not _fair_." She broke off at the last word into a renewed round of weeping.

_It's not fair_.

Yes, he had heard that sentence before. Mary's mother had said the exact same thing when she had blamed him for her son's injuries—and eventual death. The words rang in Alfred's mind with the solemnity of funeral bells, heavy and staggering, and he wondered why, with every second that passed, he felt increasingly at unease, as if something were chewing at his nerves. Déjà vu, maybe. The alcohol, probably. But—something else. Something else was nagging at him. Something here was very wrong—but what?

"Listen, I know how terrible it must make you feel—" the man soothed, but the woman cut him off.

"You _don't_ know, though, do you?" She gave a hysterical laugh, high and off-kilter. "You don't know what it's like. To stare into someone's eyes, knowing that when you're talking to him, you're trying to send him to his death."

"It's duty," the man said, although, from the way he bit out the letters, he was beginning to grow irritated. "That's all it is."

"When was _spying_ a duty?" the woman spat.

The pieces snapped into place.

So. _So_.

_That's_ what it was all about.

Why the dancers had been hanging around those soldiers so readily. Why the dancer who had approached _him_ had had that strange spark in her eyes. And why this woman was crying, and why that man was shushing her now.

Without even thinking, Alfred stepped out from behind the barrels and toward the pair. For a brief moment, they just stood looking at each other, even though they couldn't possibly see the other clearly in the darkness. It was as if they were at the edge of some great cliff, one foot already off into the abyss, the other still planted on the ground. Caught between safety and falling. Holding their breaths, not wanting to break the trembling balance.

Then everything went to hell.

In a motion too quick for Alfred to dodge, the man threw a fist that connected with a sickening crunch with Alfred's jaw—that shoved him three feet and into the wall.

Alfred didn't even have to time to comprehend what had just occurred—how the hell was this man so _strong_—when a leg wedged itself into Alfred's side, and he was sent sprawling onto the ground. The man made a move to kick him again, but Alfred rolled clumsily out of the way and grasped at the man's ankle, hauling him to the earth. If this man wanted to play rough, Alfred could play rough. Oh, Alfred would make him pay—he would make him _scream_. He would make this bastard traitor scream so hard that his voice would give out, vocal cords snapped from the strain.

While he grappled at the man, trying to find a firm hold on the man's throat, Alfred dimly heard shrieking—probably the woman—through the blood roaring through his ears. Another punch to Alfred's face silenced the sound for a brief moment as black spots mushroomed in his vision, followed by a second fist that sent a torrent of blood gushing out of Alfred's nose. When Alfred paused for just a moment, choking around the blood in his throat for a breath, the man battered Alfred against the alley's wall and sent a sharp jab to Alfred's ribs that made him screech, in both pain and fury. He had felt the crack—he had _heard_ the crack—of a rib breaking, maybe two.

How was this even possible? Alfred knew that even drunk he could overpower anyone in a fight, but here he was, getting his ass _handed_ to him.

Suddenly, hands at Alfred's collar dragged him upright, and for the first time, he met the eyes of the man who had assaulted him.

Blue eyes.

_Blue eyes_.

He had heard the man's voice before. He had heard the man's voice before, but at the time, he couldn't tell where and when and who the hell it belonged to.

He knew now, because those damn blue eyes were the exact same as his own.

"Johnny?" Alfred gasped, phrasing it as a question, but meaning it as a fact.

"Alfred," Johnny said in return, and before another word could be spoken, the Confederate States of America swung a fist at Alfred's face—and everything went dark.

* * *

Author's Note:

So Alfred didn't get laid tonight-there, I said it. In any case, if you liked what you have read and would like to see more, leave a review! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine:**

_It had started slowly. A tingle running down his leg. A prick racing up his arm. A shadow flitting across his vision. Blink—and then nothing._

_Alfred hadn't given much thought to these—signs, as he would later find out they were. After all, with the conclusion of the Mexican-American War, the pomp and circumstance of the victory, the boundless joy for the future that came with finally stretching from coast to coast—Manifest Destiny at last—why should he pay attention to such miniscule non-issues that passed as quickly as they came? Everyone had strange aches and unexplainable pains now and then, so why should he—the United States of America—worry about something like _that_?_

_But, the tingle became a paralysis that had him half-slumped against the wall, his leg suddenly numb and dead. The prick became a dagger twisting into his muscles, leaving him gritting his teeth in the middle of conversations. And the shadow? It became a complete blank, obscuring a quarter and sometimes even more of his sight, and his eyes turned red and raw from his repeated attempts at scrubbing away that ghastly film that clung to him with a vicious, terrible tenacity._

_None of that compared to the headaches, though. Ruthless assaults on his temples that seemed to churn his brains inside and out, rattle his skull and gouge at his nerves. Even worse, they were unpredictable—there was no pattern to their occurrence, no specific duration, no identified trigger. Only the fact that they were wholly unbearable, so much so that they left Alfred screaming in fury and desperation whenever they came and crying in relief and fear after the bout was over._

_Alfred supposed that he knew what was happening, in those brief snippets of time when he was coherent and fully in control of his mental facilities. Wallace brought him news frequently of the Southern cries about injustice and blasphemy. With the Mexican-American War's conclusion came massive tracts of land—and massive uproar over whether those territories would be free or slave, igniting furious debate and controversy all over the country and especially in Congress, where the fighting seemed the most bitter. And then, with California applying for admission as a free state in 1849, which not only would destroy the delicate equilibrium of free-state and slave-state representation in the Senate but also would set a precedent for the rest of the Mexican Cession land—hell, Alfred felt that his head might explode, quite literally, from the strain._

_Because his body was mirroring the struggles of his citizens, his nerves set alight with a renewed wave of agony, his muscles shrieking at a fresh spasm of pain, with every erupted debate—and the word _Personification_ didn't ever seem truer than in those days._

_It all culminated in 1850. As Congress entered into a series of negotiations over a compromise that would, in the spirit of optimism, smooth over the conflict that threatened to boil over, Alfred spent most of his time bed-ridden and incapable of speech—except during fits when he'd rant and rave in a variety of American dialects about nothing in particular. Having been moved to the White House in the hope that being closer to the nation's heart would ease the pain, Alfred had the best care possible, with people tending to his every whim every minute—although, in truth, his only whim at that point was for someone to put a bullet in his skull, which was not, as Wallace had succinctly put it, a _viable option_._

_So, Alfred waited, or rather, he writhed around and babbled and moaned while the senators in Congress writhed around and babbled and moaned in their own peculiar way—and Alfred supposed that all of their efforts amounted to something, because a compromise was finally reached._

_Alfred would have been happy, if only his brain didn't threaten to implode at any second—and, to be honest, he didn't know how much more of this agony he could take, how much longer he would last._

_How he wanted Arthur to be there by his side, holding his hand! It was a far-fetched dream, but it gave him some comfort to imagine that at any time, the door to his bedroom would open and a familiar figure would step in and say, with that characteristic accent, that it would be all right!_

_But, when the door to his bedroom did open, revealing someone other than the doctors and nurses who fussed over him, on August 9th of 1850, a date that would be forever seared into Alfred's brain—it wasn't Arthur._

_Through the blotches of black that had bled into his vision, Alfred could make out three figures. Wallace, who looked strangely pale and folded-in on himself; John C. Calhoun, who seemed to be hiding something under a mask of sympathy; and—_him_._

_Alfred hadn't realized at first. No—through the fire chewing at his limbs, the hammer pounding at his skull, and the haze that had settled over his sight, he hadn't realized that anything was off, although _everything _was wrong with the situation._

_He hadn't even put it together when John C. Calhoun had said slickly and with a sideways smile, "Mr. Jones, I'd like you to meet someone."_

_It was only when he had come to Alfred's bedside, had bent down to take Alfred's thin and trembling hand in his own—and then, all of Alfred's suffering just vanished without a trace of it ever being there, leaving him feeling empty and weak and unimaginably euphoric—and for the first time in a long time, Alfred could finally see—!_

_The puzzle was complete._

_"I'm Jonathan—but you can call me Johnny," _he_ had said in an unmistakable Southern drawl—and it was disturbing to see that almost perfect mirror of Alfred speak in such a way. "It's a pleasure to meet you."_

_Mostly by instinct, Alfred had grasped that hand with as much strength as he could muster and had introduced himself before unceremoniously passing out._

_And the rest—well, it was history._

* * *

When Alfred came to, the first thing he noticed was that he was tied to a chair. What felt like coarse rope bound his arms and ankles—which would have been hilarious under ordinary circumstances, because, hell, a few loops of fiber wasn't going to stop him from going anywhere he wanted—but these weren't ordinary circumstances.

No.

Because Jonathan—Johnny—_the Confederate States of America_—was sitting on a couch across from him, staring out the window into the night and absentmindedly eating a peach.

"Could you get any _more_ Southern?" Alfred snapped before he could stop himself. What he _should_ have done was as quietly as possible worm out of these bindings—but, tactics be damned. An uncontrollable fury was rising up inside of him, rushing through his veins like liquid fire, and—God, how much did he want to hit that face!

Johnny flinched, his shoulders jerking for a brief second, before that all-too-familiar composure kicked in—the slight posturing that give him a hint of aristocratic arrogance. Alfred had no idea where Johnny had learned such things—or maybe it just came naturally to him—especially that mocking half-smile that quirked at his lips, but Alfred hated it, and hated it even more because Alfred might as well have been seeing it on himself.

"You're awake," Johnny said, turning to face Alfred. He didn't let go of the peach—rather, his fingers tightened around it, crushing into the skin.

"Enjoying the view?" Alfred tilted his head toward the window. "Pennsylvania's awfully pretty, although I doubt you can see anything out there right now. You should wait until the morning, with the sunrise and the forest—it's quite beautiful. It'll be worth your while, since, you know, _you're already here_."

Johnny didn't seem to notice the venom that dripped from those last four words—or if he did, he hid it far better than Alfred ever could. "I don't think either of us have that luxury." He gave a small, flat chuckle. "We're in a bit of a—_predicament_, wouldn't you say?"

"Predicament, my ass," Alfred bit out. "You have a lot of nerve showing up here, setting up this—this damn _spying circle_ in my own land. Why don't you just stay on _your_ side instead of crawling over to mine?"

"We're at a war here, in case you haven't noticed," Johnny said dryly, and Alfred could see his jaw stiffen. "Or did you forget that part?"

Alfred barked out a laugh—because, how the hell could he forget? The past few months of his life had been nothing but _defined_ by the war. Every action he had taken, every situation he had been thrust in, it was all because of that wretched blight that wreaked havoc on his country. "You know, for all the honor that you like to carry around, you sure are liberal with the way you actually conduct yourself."

"I take _orders_, Alfred," Johnny said, grinding the words out between his teeth, a flush starting to rise in his cheeks. "Unlike you."

"Which means you're a damn hypocrite, _Johnny_," Alfred spat. "I should have known, though. It's the same with that lot of Southerners you've got surrounding you—calling out things such as _rights_ when they won't even give their slaves the luxury of _saying_ that word."

"It's not my call," Johnny said, and Alfred felt a childish sense of delight in seeing his counterpart squirm in his own skin, try to maintain a sense of calm and aloofness despite the doubtlessly stinging accusations that Alfred was hurling at him. If there was anything that Alfred had learned about Johnny, it was that insulting his pride was worse than any kind of physical blow.

"Not your call, huh?" Alfred scoffed. "Do you know what kind of people say that? Little, sneaky cowards who—"

"Just shut it," Johnny snarled, anger finally taking over, his blue eyes burning. The peach in his hand, with an audible squish, crumpled into pieces, juice running through Johnny's fingers and dripping onto the floor. Then, with an obvious attempt at forced relaxation, he set the peach pit on a table nearby. "You're in _no _position to be talking like that right now."

He was right, as much as Alfred hated to admit it. Even though Alfred could break out of these bonds in under a few minutes, that would give a window of opportunity for Johnny to just punch him out again—and, hell, his punches _hurt_. Alfred didn't know how long he had been out, but he could still feel an ache in his mouth and ribs, which throbbed mercilessly despite having been mended. But, damn it—Alfred wasn't going to show it.

"What? Hit a nerve or something?"

Johnny shook his head, although the twist of his lips, the furrowing of his eyebrows, and the tremors that ran through his hands spoke otherwise. Alfred bet that Johnny would very much like to throttle him right now—which was fine, because Alfred felt the exact same way.

"I'm ready for round two if you are," Alfred said, shifting on the chair and pulling at his constraints.

"I think you'd lose," Johnny said, each syllable as cold as ice.

"We can test that out. Right. Now." Alfred met Johnny's eyes, blue to blue, in an obvious challenge. "Come on. Untie me. I'll make it quick."

"I don't think so."

"Scared?"

"Please." Johnny smirked. "Let's not forget what happened a couple of hours ago."

"I was drunk," Alfred said, although a blush had begun to burn at his face. Hell, there was no denying how completely and utterly humiliating that pitiful excuse for a brawl was.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed about it," Johnny said, smiling without humor. "I have to say, though—inebriation suits you well."

"I had a rough day." Now, _that_ was an understatement. A rough past month more like it. "Don't tell me—you don't ever touch a _drop_ of alcohol—because that would be a lie. I know how much Southern gentlemen like you enjoy their whiskeys."

"I know my limits. You—obviously—don't."

"What can I say? I have better things to do than sit down, look out at my plantation, and have a mint julep with the good old boys."

"It's not like that." Johnny rose suddenly. "_We're_ not all like that." He stalked to where Alfred was and leaned down, so close that Alfred could feel Johnny's breath on his skin. "Why can't you see that? Are you really that _dense_?"

"Dense about what? The fact that while you enjoy the evening, there are _people_ out there, working their lives away under the lash and worse?"

"There are monsters everywhere, Alfred!" Johnny stepped back, throwing up his arms. "Don't try to make it any different than it is."

"So you admit it. It _is_ horrible? What the South's doing to all those slaves?"

"What—I—" Johnny stuttered and then, with visible effort, said as smoothly as he could manage, "Look, I didn't _say_ that."

"But you know it, don't you? You just don't want to admit it to me."

"Admit what, exactly? That—sure, Alfred, slavery is an abomination on earth? That there are plantation owners and plantation foremen and God-knows-what-else out there who are bent on exacting as much pain and suffering out of their slaves as they can—through whatever means necessary? That there's beatings and killings and—and—! Damn it, Alfred—don't you think I _see_ it? Don't you think I _feel_ it?" Johnny finished, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stumbled and almost slumped onto the couch, and for the first time since Alfred had regained consciousness, Alfred took a good look at him.

Despite being immaculately dressed as always, there was something—different about Johnny. Perhaps his clothing hung a bit looser here and there. Or maybe it was the fact his hair didn't shine the way it did before, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Alfred realized, with a startle, that Johnny looked gaunt, as if some poison had settled in and had stolen some of his previous luster—made all the worse by the elite airs he always put on, which, Alfred thought, had started to wear thin, revealing a throbbing vulnerability and an infinite exhaustion.

War, Alfred supposed, would do that to a man—_any_ man.

"But, Alfred, it's not about slavery—not entirely," Johnny finally murmured, his voice low. "It's about much more than that."

"Like what? Don't pull out that states' rights piece again. Say it like you want, but you know the truth—_we both know the truth_. You can't hide it in sheep's clothing forever."

Johnny gave a thin, wan smile. "Believe it or not, but everyone knows where _that_ wolf is. But, did you ever think that maybe there was more than one beast in the fields?"

"Is that what your people are telling you, or did you come up with that yourself?"

"Both." And then, Johnny let out a heavy sigh, and he seemed to visibly deflate in front of Alfred's eyes. "I mean—more the latter. The people—_my_ people—they don't talk to me much." With that admittance, something akin to shame crossed over Johnny's face, although it disappeared as quickly as it came.

The rage was still there, but somehow it had dulled in response to Johnny's confession, so that when Alfred spoke, his voice was softer. "Too busy setting up their government?"

"That—and more. I think…I think they might be—afraid of me," Johnny whispered, and he dropped his eyes to the floor, unable to meet Alfred's gaze and looking very, very small.

It hadn't ever occurred to Alfred that Johnny was—well, not neglected, but lonely. He had spent so long believing that Johnny was the enemy, the harbinger of all of his troubles, that maybe, just maybe, he had stopped thinking that his counterpart was, well, _like_ him. With emotions and scars of his own—hidden, perhaps, under that hard shell of an exterior, but still there.

And, perhaps Alfred could understand what Johnny felt. After all, the Southerners who ran the Confederacy—most of them probably hadn't ever encountered a Personification before Johnny, let alone had one of their own. It would make sense that they would be frightened of the possibilities and would even actively seek to avoid Johnny despite the fact that he _was_ them, that everything inside of him was a result of their hopes and dreams and fears and terrors. People, Arthur had told Alfred as a warning, are naturally wary of unknown things, despite how unfair that may be.

"Afraid?" Alfred cocked an eyebrow, and said, almost gently, "You're probably the most harmless out of all of them."

Johnny gave a little laugh, but it sounded hollow. "Tell that to your ribs."

"I meant—you're—well—" Alfred paused, biting his lip, unsure if he should go any further—this was the Confederacy, after all, the force he was fighting against—but deciding that it was worth it. "You're—_pure_, I suppose."

"Now _that_ is a joke," Johnny said. "Just because I'm young doesn't mean that—"

"I _know_," Alfred said. "I just—I think that…" he trailed off and then gave a helpless shrug. "Well, you have your politicians, and you have your generals, and they're all playing this great game with each other, dodging and weaving about and trying to see who can get someone twisted around their finger first—but _you_? I don't think you play that game. You don't care about machinations. You call it as it is."

"How can you say that?" Johnny said, leaning forwards, something close to desperation in his eyes. "I thought you said I was the same as them." The words were bitter.

"Because you're the first Southerner I've met who's actually looked straight in my face and said that slavery was cruel."

There was a pause where both of them looked at each other, Johnny's eyes wide and filled with—Alfred couldn't pinpoint what emotion exactly, but he might have guessed that it was gratitude.

Johnny looked away first. "You know, Alfred, there are people like me in the South who—who tell it as it is. They own slaves, but they don't treat them poorly. I mean, it's far from a majority—but it's there."

"I believe you," Alfred said. "But that doesn't excuse the rest."

"It doesn't, does it?" Johnny released a pent-up breath. "What a mess we're in."

Alfred chuckled grimly. "I'll drink to that."

"You better not," Johnny said. "We all know what _that_ looks like—and it's not pleasant on the eyes."

"That's really funny. You're a real jester, aren't you?"

"It's the truth, and—" Johnny broke off before continuing in such a soft voice that Alfred had to strain his ears to hear, "I'm sorry."

"About what?" Alfred said lightly. "If you're talking about slugging the living daylights out of me, I'm already over that—say, how long was I out?"

"A couple of hours," Johnny said, "but that's not what I was getting at—although I _am _sorry about it too. It's just—on the day of the Battle of Manassas—Bull Run, for you—two men were supposed to—to—"

"Kill me?" Alfred finished, surprised at how easily the words came, despite the distinct sourness that seemed to pit in his stomach at the memory.

"Yes. I didn't want them to go, but—listen, it wasn't right. I tried to stop Withers, but he wouldn't listen to me, so—" Johnny shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Withers? I thought the men were—" Alfred stopped, searching for the correct names. "Tom and Phil?" he said.

"Yes—that was the—assassins' names." At the word _assassins_, Johnny frowned, as if he had tasted something rotten. "But, Withers—Richard Withers—that's his full name—he's…He's not _part_ of the government, but he wanted to be. I don't know how, but he managed to get information about—about people like us. He thought since we were linked to our country, it might—you know—_speed up the process_ of—winning the war, if…" Johnny couldn't continue.

"If I were dead?" Alfred felt a corner of his mouth jerk upwards. "He didn't do his research properly. I'm still here—as you know. And, the war isn't over yet."

"No. No, it's not over. And it was wrong to go after you like that. It wasn't honorable—no…that's not the word. It wasn't _right_. And—" Johnny's eyes were pleading. "I understand if you think less of me—and my people because of what happened, but let me tell you, Withers was acting alone on this. As far as I know, no one in my government backed him on his plan."

"But he followed through with it anyway?"

"Yes. He thought that if he succeeded, he might be promoted to some special federal position—and, for the record, President Davis _is_ furious with him. Withers is actually in jail now, but—" Johnny scowled. "Not for what he wanted to do to you."

"Don't tell me—he was embezzling war funds too?"

"Hardly. That'd be…better, actually." Johnny faced Alfred, grim. "It's for murder."

"_Murder_?"

"Two murders, actually." Johnny looked at him pointedly. "Put two and two together."

"Phil and Tom," Alfred said. Of course.

"When he heard the two of them didn't—didn't manage to carry out the deed, Withers snapped. And—well, it is what it is." Johnny sighed and rested his head on his hands, looking miserable. "I should have stopped him. Why didn't I _stop_ him?"

"I didn't know you cared about me that much," Alfred said, only half-joking. Because, this was _Johnny_, who Alfred had thought always had a bone to pick with him, who—hell, _enjoyed_ butting heads with him and pushing his buttons without restraint. If their last meeting before South Carolina's secession was any basis, Johnny loathed Alfred viciously—or was that a front, too?

Johnny gave him a resigned look. "You're all I have," he said simply. Before Alfred could speak, Johnny held up a hand. "Look—I know what you think of me. You think that I'm just some vile, wretched part of you that separated and became something of its own. And, guess what?" Johnny thumped his chest. "That's _exactly_ what I am. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't _exist_. But I do. And—Alfred you're the only one who can even _try_ to understand."

"Why are you saying this?" Alfred murmured. "Before today, you wouldn't have even come close to admitting that you're just some _extension_ of me. But, right now? You've turned completely around."

"I opened my eyes," Johnny said darkly.

"What _happened_ to you?" Alfred demanded. This wasn't the Johnny Alfred knew, had grown used to. This one, this cynical shell—he was a stranger.

"What happened to me?" Johnny scoffed. "The _war_ happened to me. _Manassas_ happened to me." His eyes were wide and wild. "I had thought—from everyone I had heard from—that this war would be easy. Can you imagine that? That it was just some brief chess match that would be over in a day. But, no." Johnny closed his eyes, his hands digging into his scalp. "I can still hear them. Still hear all those soldiers who died, screaming in my head. I can't silence them, I can't help them—I can only listen. I hate it."

Johnny looked at Alfred wearily. "Can you tell me it gets better, Alfred?"

Alfred opened his mouth, tried to speak, found that there were no words to say. All he could think about was how much, during Bull Run, he himself had suffered, had cried out for it all to stop despite having experienced it for countless times in the past—and how much worse it must have been for Johnny, who must have been completely unprepared, who had, from the sound of it, deluded himself into believing that war was one fantastic, noble game.

Now that Alfred thought about it, Johnny wasn't that different from those boys in the tavern—from Tommy. They were all children—poor, little children who had no business toting a gun, who should be out there in the fields not slaughtering each other, but enjoying that bright, sparkling thing called youth that had now been lost.

"I didn't think so." Johnny slumped deeper into the couch. "Do you see why I think what I do? All those people howling away—brothers shooting brothers, fathers shooting sons—it shouldn't have happened. _I_ shouldn't have happened."

"Johnny…"

"Don't try to say different, Alfred, because I know the truth. And you might as well admit it—you've always thought the same."

"Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn't matter though."

"It doesn't matter?" Johnny stared at him, astonished. "It's all that matters."

"No—reasons don't matter." Alfred chewed his lip. "What does is that we're in the war still. That's all. There's no way we can turn back—it's not like any of our leaders are willing to sign a peace treaty at this instant. So—we have to keep going. Johnny—" Here, Alfred met Johnny's eyes. "It's what people like us do. It's all we _can_ do."

"It's not fair," Johnny said. "For any of us."

"_There's nothing civil about a civil war_." Alfred sighed. "Arthur—England's personification—told me that once."

"You're lucky, Alfred, that you have him." Then, hesitantly, Johnny said, "I met him, you know? He's a good man."

"Wait." Alfred felt as if someone had snatched out the ground underneath his feet. "Wait—you've _met_ him?"

"Yes. He's an ambassador for England." Seeing Alfred's shocked expression, Johnny said, almost defensively, "I've only seen him once. I mean, he's only visited once, so—"

"What did he want?" Alfred said, snapping the sentence like a whip.

"Just to discuss business. Cotton." But he wasn't telling the whole truth—no, not with the way he was looking everywhere _but_ at Alfred.

"And—?"

"I don't think that's—"

"Tell me!"

Johnny eyed him strangely, and then said, "Well, we _are_ at war, so my people though it would be beneficial if we—had some allies to help us."

"That bastard!" Alfred spat, although, beyond the anger that had now returned with a vengeance, there was a stinging hurt that throbbed in his chest. Arthur—an ally of Johnny—of the Confederacy? How could Arthur _do_ that? How could he betray Alfred, his _son_, like that—but no. Alfred was no longer his son, and the gloves were off, if the War of 1812 had taught Alfred anything.

Cotton—yes, Arthur and his country needed the South's cotton for their textiles. But, besides economics, what better way to drive another dagger into Alfred's heart than by joining up with his counterpart and fighting against him, once again?

Thoughts—poisonous, awful thoughts—filled Alfred's head despite his best attempts to drive them away. Of Arthur and Johnny—like Arthur and Alfred had been like before the Revolution. Father and son, and—damn. Damn it all.

"We're still in negotiation," Johnny said, sensing Alfred's fury—though it wasn't directed at him. "Nothing's official yet."

"Damn him," Alfred muttered. "Damn _him_."

"Alfred—Alfred will you _stop_ that?" Johnny said, and Alfred faced him, his fists clenched, his fingernails digging into his palms.

"What?" Alfred said.

"Think what you may, but it's not like _that_," Johnny said. "He's been nothing but polite with me, and we've only talked alone _once_, and even then it wasn't about anything particularly—personal. Alfred, we're both strangers to each other."

"What's he trying to _do_?" Alfred growled between his teeth. "What kind of trick is he trying to pull?"

"He's doing nothing more than the job he's been assigned," Johnny said, exasperated.

"Right. Right." Maybe Johnny was telling the truth. Maybe Arthur _was_ just being an ambassador—not trying to replace Alfred with a look-alike, not trying to—to betray him. It certainly wouldn't be strange that the English monarchy and Parliament were curious about this whole spat beyond the Atlantic—and certainly it wouldn't be unusual for Arthur to be assigned to scope out the matter, as Personifications usually served in such a capacity. Still, there was that doubt—that nagging feeling that somehow, Arthur was trying to hurt him…wanted to see him suffer in payment for Alfred's betrayal so many years ago—had whispered into the ears of those in power that it might be helpful for Britain to intervene.

"For what it's worth, I think he's fond of you," Johnny said suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean—" Johnny turned red. "He mentioned you more than a couple of times, and—well, I can tell that you think he's trying to inflict some kind of pain on you, but…it's hard to say, but it's just something you can _tell_. He has nothing but respect—and more—for you, Alfred. And I'm not going to change that."

"That's stupid," Alfred burst out. "That's just completely and utterly stupid."

Because, Arthur had burned Alfred's beloved capital, reduced the White House to ashes and rubble—torn Alfred's heart wide open and set it alight. Respect and more? Then what had the War of 1812 been? Some kind of demonstration of Arthur's supposed affection?

_Don't be ridiculous_, a voice inside of Alfred piped up. _Someone probably ordered Arthur to set that place on fire—and he couldn't do anything but carry out the deed. And, besides—who's been the one mooning over Arthur since this damn Civil War started?_

_ Shut up_, Alfred said to the voice. _I wasn't mooning, for one—I was reminiscing. And, second—Arthur could have walked away. He could have chosen not to participate and—_

_ Now who's being stupid?_ the voice countered. _How many times have _you _tried to defy orders and failed?_

"Believe what you want, but I know what I saw," Johnny said. Then, he added, "And—come on—if you didn't care about him, you wouldn't have reacted the way you did when I told you he came to meet me."

For the first time in a long time, Alfred was speechless. He—he _cared_ about Arthur? Yes, that was true, but—that had been before the Revolution, right? He had broken that bond with Arthur with the first bullet that was fired in that war—and it was irreparable. There was no way—no way that what they had had would ever come back. It was impossible.

But the remnants were there, weren't they? Arthur, according to Johnny, apparently still felt something for the son he had lost. And, if Alfred was being honest with himself, he still wanted Arthur beside him, to be a part of his life again. Was it possible that they might be able to meet halfway and—put things back together again?

The image of Arthur and Johnny together soured that thought, and Alfred found himself grimacing. If Arthur truly wanted to mend relations, he sure as hell was making it as difficult as possible.

But—that wasn't the problem at hand right now.

"That might be true," Alfred said, "but it's not about him and me—at least, not at this moment. I mean…You're still in my territory, there are still spies in the middle of Pennsylvania, and I'm tied to this _chair_."

"Right. Right—I—I almost forgot," Johnny said, and then, in an instant, the mask was back, and even though it was not as cold as before, Alfred knew that the time for heart-to-heart conversation had passed. "The predicament."

"The predicament," Alfred agreed. "So, what happens next?"

"I don't know." Johnny ran a hand through his hair. "I should take you back to my people, but…" He shook his head. "I don't know what they would do to you. I don't _want_ to know what they would do to you."

"You could let me go," Alfred said, his voice soft. There might have been a time when that option wasn't even a possibility, but something had changed between the two of them today—that maybe they had grown closer, or at the very least, had begun to understand each other better. Either way, Alfred had to try, especially now.

"And what then? You'd just go off and tell Lincoln about this place, and all the people here—they would be imprisoned…or worse. And—Alfred, I'm not going to let them hang. I'm tired of not doing anything—and I'll be damned to hell if I step back this time."

"What they're doing _is_ treason," Alfred said. He thought about Tommy and his family, wondered how much of a hand this spy ring had had in their fate, had had in the fates of so many other soldiers who had been torn apart and stuffed into the ground while their mothers or fathers, sisters or brothers, sons or daughters, had watched. "And I'll be damned to hell if I let them go without consequence."

Johnny threw up his hands. "Now what? I _won't_ let them die, and you _won't_ let them be. Are we just going to stay up here in the tavern until the war is over?"

Alfred scowled. "I don't know—I don't know!" One of them had to give, that much was for certain—but who?

_To hell with it_, Alfred thought, and before he could change his mind, he said, "Listen, Johnny. This is how it's going to be." When Johnny opened his mouth to protest, Alfred said, "No, hear me out. You let me go, and I won't tell anyone about the spies—immediately. I'll give you enough time for you to get as many as you can out, and then it's fair game."

"You'd be willing to do that?" Johnny said. "For _me_?"

"It's not _for_ you," Alfred said, suddenly tired. "It's for the people. That's what we're here for, Johnny. The people."

After a few seconds, Johnny nodded, a steel determination flashing in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was cool. "How are we going to do this?"

"You could say that you're taking me back to your people in Richmond. Tie me up, blindfold me—hell, rough me up a little if that's what it takes—and lead me out. Then, a little ways from town, drop me off in the woods with some supplies and leave me your horse. I'll beat you up, get some blood on your clothes, and you can head back here and say that I managed to get away—and that they need to leave before I report them to the authorities."

"If we don't do this right, we'll have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to both of our bosses."

"Unless you can think of another option, this is all we've got."

"No—I can't." Johnny let out a breath. "We should get started. Sooner is better than later." He rose from the couch and headed to the door.

"Johnny—wait."

Johnny paused, his hand on the doorknob. Without looking at Alfred, he said, "If you're going to tell me what things we need, I think I have a good idea. You don't have to hold my hand through it."

"I wasn't going to."

"Then, what?"

"I—" Alfred paused, then, in a low voice, he said, "Before, when you said that I thought of you as some wretched piece of me that came to have a life of its own—I want you to know that I'm sorry. I _did_ think that but—"

"Not any more?" Johnny said quietly, without emotion.

"Not any more," Alfred confirmed. "So—are we…are we good?"

The pause was so long that Alfred was afraid that Johnny wouldn't answer, or worse, that he would say no. But then, Johnny whispered, almost to himself, "We're good."

With that, Johnny left, and Alfred was alone.

* * *

Author's Note:

I hope that was satisfying, since I've been building up to this moment for the past eight chapters. There'll be more Johnny/Alfred interaction in the next chapter, but just in case you don't want to wait (shameless self-promotion here), check out my story _Johnny Has Gone For A Soldier _on my profile page. It's set a bit later in the war, and Alfred and Johnny get to hash it out a bit again (shameless self-promotion done). And, here's a big thanks for all you people who have stuck with me this far-really, I appreciate all of those views and all of the feedback. In any case, if you liked what you have seen and would like to see more, please review! :)


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